GIFT  OF 


m 


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THE  LAND  OF  PURPLE  SHADOWS 


To  the  courtesy  of  the  editors  of  "Sports  Afield,"  "Munsey's,"  "The 
Land  of  Sunshine,'*  "The  San  Francisco  Call,"  "The  Chicago  Record- 
Herald,"  and  "  The  Los  Angeles  Times"  —in  which  publications  some  of 
these  sketches  have  already  seen  print— is  due  their  reappearance  in  more 
permanent  form. 


"Chasms  where  the  sun  comes  late,  and  leaves  while  yet  it  is  early  afternoon. "-Page  2. 


The  Land  of  Purple 
Shadows 


Idah  Meacham  Strobridge 


THE  ARTEMISIA  BINDERY 
Los  Angeles 

MCMIX 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
Moh  Meacham  Strobridge 


Of  this  autographed  edition  of 
"The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows," 
one  thousand  copies  were  made; 
this  one  being 


283075 


To 
YOU 

Who  were  born  in  the  West-who 
live  in  the  West-who  love  the  West. 


FOREWORD 

At  various  times — in  various  places ;  in  many  moods, 
and  in  different  mediums,  are  the  studies  and  sketches 
made,  which  the  painter  brings  back  to  his  studio  after 
his  working-vacation  is  over.  Mere  suggestions  and 
rough  outlines  are  they — the  first  impressions  of  what 
he  saw;  what  he  felt;  what  he  lived.  Not  for  the 
galleries  did  he  make  them,  nor  for  the  critics,  nor  the 
careless.  But  the  portfolio  is  opened  to  those  who 
will  understand;  those  who — in  the  incomplete  sketch, 
the  half-finished  study — see  The  Truth. 

Even  as  the  painter  shows  you  such,  so,  too,  are  put 
before  you  these  studies  of  the  West — this  land  of 
golden  sunlight  and  purple  shadows. 


IN  QUIET  CANONS. 

F  YOU  are  a  mountain  lover,  and  live 
here  in  Sunset-Land,  you  count  the 
clefts  and  chasms  of  the  Coast  Range 
and  the  Sierras,  as  among  old  friends — 
such  friends  as  one  well  loves,  and  loves 
long. 

They  are  dark  and  beautiful  with  pine,  and  tama 
rack,  and  fir ;  but  far  back  from  the  sea,  on  the  eastern 
slopes,  are  some  which  do  not  have  the  rich  blue-green 
coloring.  What  of  these,  and  other  canons  that  lie 
in  purple  mountains  far  to  the  eastward,  where  gray 
foothills  go  down  to  meet  the  leprous  white  of  the 
great  plains?  Do  you  know  these  quiet  canons;  or, 
are  they  only  strangers  to  you? 

Yet  they  are  ours,  even  as  the  others  are.  Not  to 
the  desert  States  only  must  you  go  to  find  them. 

Nor  is  it  in  canons  teeming  with  active  life,  where 
mills  are  grinding  ores  all  day — all  night — amid  the 
deafening  roar  of  tireless  machinery;  nor  where  the 
houses  hang  like  swallows'  nests  against  the  canon's 
terraced  sides,  and  men  and  mines  fill  the  busy  day 
with  noisy  work,  that  one  feels  the  complete  fascina 
tion  of  these  Western  mountains.  Not  where  human 
life  and  human  interests  are  found;  but  in  the  little 
known,  passed  by  and  forgotten  canons  of  the  States 
that  lie  west  and  away  from  the  Missouri's  flood,  and 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In 

Qiriet 
Canons 


east  of  the  Sierra's  eternal  battlements,  where  they 
lift  above  the  line  of  pine-tree,  and  tamarack,  and  fir. 

The  mountains  are  furrowed  and  gashed  by  ravine 
and  gorge — chasms  where  the  sun  comes  late  and 
leaves  while  yet  it  is  early  afternoon.  And  their  sides 
are  hollowed,  too,  into  sunny  hiding  places  of  repose 
and  calm  for  those  who  love  the  heights.  Here,  in 
these  quiet  canons,  one  goes  hand  in  hand  with  Nature 
in  all  her  charm  of  waywardness  when  unrestrained 
by  meddling  man. 

In  Spring-time  they  are  fair  to  look  upon,  as  all 
things  are  fair  which  are  fresh  and  sweet  with  budding 
youth;  but  it  is  in  the  Autumn,  when  they  take  on  all 
the  gorgeousness  of  changing  leaf  and  vine,  when 
every  shade  of  the  colors  of  fire  and  blood  is  seen,  that 
one  finds  them  in  their  fullest  beauty  and  at  their  best. 

Some  there  are,  it  is  true,  that  are  bare  of  that 
luxuriance  of  color  in  which  the  others  revel;  and  you 
may  turn  your  horse's  head  up  one  of  these,  upon 
some  Autumn  day  of  mountain  climbing,  and  only  find 
scattered  clumps  of  buck-brush  and  willow  growing  in 
a  hollow  between  two  hills.  Beneath  them  are  hidden 
springs — springs  which  have  no  water  to  spare  now  to 
turn  a  rivulet  loose  that  it  may  dance  and  sparkle 
down  the  way  to  meet  you,  but  which  keep  the  sparce 
shade  green  throughout  the  hot  Summer,  and  the  roots 
moist  and  growing. 

Grass  grows  here — a  patch  of  wild  rye,  browned 
now  by  the  suns  of  the  long  Summer.  Rabbit-brush 
is  everywhere;  the  nettles  and  hoarhound  are  brown 
and  dead.  White  butterflies  are  fluttering  above 
weeds  that  are  a-bloom  with  blossoms  of  gold. 

How  still  the  world  is!  The  only  sounds  are  your 
horse's  hoof -falls,  his  labored  breathing  as  he  climbs 
the  heights  through  the  rarefied  air,  and  the  creaking 
of  your  saddle-leathers. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


You  startle  a  mountain  quail  into  flight,  catching 
but  a  flash  of  her  red-brown  wing  as  she  sweeps  across 
your  sight. 

The  thistles  and  Mariposa  lilies,  which  earlier  in 
the  year  grew  white  and  purple  up  and  down  the 
canon's  length,  have  dry  seed-pods  now. 

You  turn  your  bridle-rein  across  your  horse's  neck 
to  guide  him  over  the  ridge  into  the  next  ravine,  and 
as  he  begins  the  steeper  ascent  your  fingers  twist 
themselves  into  his  mane,  to  aid  you  in  keeping  your 
place  in  the  saddle.  Higher  and  higher  you  climb. 
Up,  and  still  up,  at  last  to  reach  the  dividing  ridge, 
where  you  can  give  your  sweating  horse  a  breathing 
spell.  As  he  stands  panting  and  trembling  there,  your 
eyes  go  up  to  the  summit's  rugged  peaks  that — with 
all  your  climbing — seem  as  far  away  as  ever.  How 
grandly  beautiful  they  are!  How  pure  and  restful 
the  mountain  tops  seem,  capped  with  their  eternal 
snows!  How  far,  and  how  fair! 

How  you  long  to  climb  till  you  reach  their  inviting 
peace  and  quiet,  to  be  there  alone  in  the  awful  still 
ness  of  those  heights  where  God  speaks  to  one  through 
the  silence. 

But  it  is  too  far  for  you  to  climb  today;  the  sun  is 
slanting  to  the  west.  You  descend  into  the  canon 
beneath  you,  into  a  gorge  so  deep  that  the  sun's  rays 
only  find  its  granite-gravelled  floor  at  mid-day.  There 
you  come  across  a  min.dfl.Tn,  resting  from  its  useful 
work  of  years  gone  by.  The  waters  overflow  its  stony 
rim  in  a  series  of  trickling,  creamy  little  rills,  and — 
falling  on  the  boulders  down  below — come  tumbling 
down  in  a  thousand  fantastic  forms  of  glittering, 
sparkling  spray.  The  water  drips  from  the  neglected 
flume  that  a  dozen  years  ago  gave  power  to  a  mill  a 
mile  or  two  further  down  the  canon,  where  it  stands 
through  the  changing  seasons,  silent  and  at  rest. 


In 

Quiet 
Canons 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In 

Quiet 

Canons 


The  creek  is  bordered  with  rose-thickets,  and 
thickets  of  wild  plum.  It  is  walled  with  tall  cliffs 
that  in  the  early  afternoon  begin  to  throw  long,  pur 
ple-black  shadows  across  the  canon  to  rest  upon  the 
sheer  walls  of  other  cliffs  that  face  them. 

The  coral-red  upon  that  bush  which  catches  on  your 
clothing  as  you  ride  by  is  the  seed-buds  of  wild  sweet- 
brier  which,  earlier  in  the  year,  made  the  creek  banks 
lovely  with  a  mass  of  pink  and  fragrant  bloom.  Rose 
bushes,  and  the  bushes  of  the  wild  gooseberry,  are 
turning  red  and  yellow  as  New  England's  Autumn 
woods. 

A  pair  of  turtle  doves  are  busily  picking  at  some 
tall,  brown  weeds  which  rattle  as  you  pass.  The 
doves,  from  the  higher  ground  where  they  have  flown, 
are  darting  their  pretty  heads  back  and  forth  in  fright 
at  the  unwonted  presence  of  man. 

Oh,  the  charm  of  these  Western  canons! 

But,  some  day,  you  may  come  across  others  burned 
bare  of  all  their  beauty;  canons  which  lie  between 
high  and  rolling  hills,  and  where  there  are  neither 
cliffs  nor  chasms.  Fire  has  swept  out  every  tree  and 
shrub  to  make  a  pathway  through  the  tangle  of  brier 
bushes  that  have  plucked  at  the  fleece  of  the  passing 
flocks  which  graze  on  these  mountains  in  summer. 

The  canon  is  burned  and  bare.  Your  horse's  hoofs 
beat  up  the  dust  in  blackened  puffs  of  burned  brush; 
and  in  the  air  is  a  smell  of  charred  wood  at  which 
your  nostrils  revolt,  while  your  eyes  rove  in  pity  over 
the  desecrated  spot.  Fire  and  flame  have  here  de 
stroyed  some  of  the  choicest  pictures  that  Nature  has 
hung  in  the  royal  art  galleries  of  the  West.  From 
the  head  of  the  ravine  down  to  its  mouth,  not  one 
growing  thing  remains.  Though  with  another  year 
the  bunch-grass  will  spring  up  for  nibbling  mouths  to 
munch,  now  you  look  only  on  desolation.  The  trail 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


of  the  sheepherder  is  over  it  all.  And  where  this  year 
you  find  the  burned  and  blackened  earth,  the  next 
will  show  you  a  spot  made  white  with  the  countless 
small,  snowy  stars  of  the  wild  tobacco-plant — the  deer's 
daintiest  morsel.  To  burn  the  brush  in  one  of  these 
canons,  is  to  invite  the  star-like,  blossoming  weed  to 
grow.  And  wherever  it  grows  you  may  be  reasonably 
sure  to  find  a  deer's  track  in  the  trails. 

And  the  birds!  They  are  everywhere.  Go  where 
you  will  in  these  canons,  the  birds  are  there.  Though 
the  trail  of  fire  has  passed  through  here,  yet  a  meadow 
lark  flies  away  as  you  approach,  and  you  catch  the 
glint  of  yellow  on  his  breast.  You  frighten  little 
Paiute  squirrels  and  a  hare  by  your  tread.  There  are 
caves  in  the  limestone  cliffs  where  impudent  wood- 
rats  build  their  nests. 

The  cliffs  are  carved  and  hewn  into  arch  and  archi 
trave  by  the  elements  in  the  hand  of  Time.  Higher, 
you  see  where  an  avalanche  of  rocks  has  fallen  and 
left  an  arch  so  wide,  so  high,  that  a  great  patch  of  the 
deep  blue  sky  shines  through.  Three  chariots  abreast 
might  pass  beneath  its  span  at  once. 

You  cross  half  a  dozen  canons  that  are  but  shallow 
ravines;  where  no  stream  flows  except  early  in  ithe 
year.  The  wash  is  parching  in  the  sun;  but  under 
the  willow  clumps  little  springs  give  forth  enough 
water  to  quench  the  thirst  of  the  mountain's  birds  and 
beasts  that  come  this  way.  Cowslips  and  brookmint 
are  here. 

Here,  too,  in  the  dust  of  the  wild-horse  trail  which 
leads  down  to  water,  you  see  the  pads  of  coyote  and 
wild-cat;  and  near  the  spring,  oozing  from  ground 
moist  and  spongy  under  the  cover  of  water-cress  and 
weeds,  is  a  track  which — fresh  and  sharp-cut  in  the 
damp  earth — tells  you  that  a  deer  has  just  been  down 
to  drink.  Involuntarily  you  raise  your  eyes  to  the 


In 

Quiet 

Canons 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Quiet 
Canons 


clump  of  willows  higher  on  the  hillside  where  the 
spring  is  dry.  Is  he  hiding  there?  Are  his  soft  eyes 
watching  you  through  the  leafy  screen  of  green  and 
silver-gray?  You  look  intently  for  perhaps  a  full 
minute ;  but  you  see  nothing.  Then  your  gaze  goes  to 
the  higher  hills  up  at  the  sky-line,  far,  far  above.  So 
high  they  are,  they  seem  to  touch  the  thin  crescent 
moon  where  it  rides  the  blue  depths  of  the  infinite  sky 
like  a  skeleton  ship  on  the  sea. 

"When  the  moon  is  up,  deer  are  feeding."  As  you 
repeat  to  yourself  the  saying  of  an  old  hunter,  you 
feel  sure  that  there  is  no  sleek,  dun-coated  animal 
hidden  away  down  in  the  canon.  He  is  feeding  on 
the  heights;  and  safe,  at  least,  today.  But,  though 
you  carried  a  gun  across  your  arm  this  quiet  afternoon, 
I  doubt  if  you  could  have  it  in  your  heart  to  disturb 
the  perfect  peace  of  the  place  and  the  hour  with  the 
startling  sound  of  a  rifle  shot. 

How  silent  it  all  is!  You  stop  and  listen;  and  you 
hear  the  beating  of  your  own  heart. 

Down  the  canon  you  ride,  and  come  upon  a  grove 
of  aspens  where  there  is  always  a  whispering  sound 
going  through  their  shivering  leaves,  as  they  stand  in 
the  midst  of  the  circling  silence.  It  is  not  the  sough 
ing  of  the  wind  as  you  have  heard  it  through  the  trees 
in  a  pine  forest;  but  a  gossiping,  whispering  little 
wind  which  says  things  of  you — not  to  you — as  you 
pass  them  by. 

Down  the  canon  you  ride,  and  come  to  a  place  all 
green  with  wire-grass  and  moss,  still  keeping  its  Sum 
mer  freshness  while  other  things  are  turning  brown. 
A  spring  is  there.  In  the  wet  places,  late  columbines 
are  growing,  and  marsh-mallows  not  yet  gone  to  seed. 
Yellow  evening  primroses — fading  and  pink-tinted  at 
the  edges— hang  wilted  on  their  stalks.  A  hundred 
yards  away,  half  an  acre  of  wild  poppies— the  thistle- 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


poppy  of  the  desert  country — have  tossed  their  thin 
white  petals  to  breezes  which  have  carried  them  afar. 

You  dismount,  and  slip  the  bridle  from  your  horse's 
head  that  he  may  drink.  Then,  when  he  begins  to 
nibble  at  the  grass  growing  there,  you  throw  yourself 
down  beside  him,  and — with  hat  drawn  low  over  your 
eyes — in  the  hushed  solitude,  with  the  afternoon 
shadows  purpling  in  the  canon,  you  drift  into  reverie. 
So,  with  narrowed  eyelids,  you  fall  to  studying  the 
tints  and  tones  of  these,  Nature's  etchings  and  water 
colors. 

There  are  pictures  all  about  you ;  pictures  to  delight 
the  artistic  sense  which  is  in  each  one  of  us  who  loves 
these  mountains  and  their  ravines.  How  their  beauty 
thrills  one!  How  their  loveliness  enters  like  wine  into 
the  veins  to  set  the  blood  aglow!  Pictures — pictures 
everywhere ! 

Fine  feathery  grasses  are  growing  at  the  base  of  a 
great  granite  boulder  where,  lying  against  it,  is  a  dead, 
bare-of-leaf  bush  whose  skeleton  branches  show  as  deli 
cate  as  a  bit  of  sea-moss  from  the  coral  isles  of  the 
Pacific.  Across  the  boulder  runs  a  clinging  vine  with 
stems  of  claret-red.  Seams  and  crevices  are  touched 
with  gray  and  brown  mosses  and  lichens.  Gnarled, 
rough-twisted,  and  devoid  of  all  bark,  pearly-tinted 
and  shading  into  darker  tones  of  gray,  part  of  a  dead 
juniper  riven  from  its  parent  trunk  lies  where  it  fell 
against  the  boulder,  just  as  it  has  lain  ever  since  it 
came  tumbling  down  into  the  ravine.  When?  How 
long  ago?  Who  shall  say? 

Higher,  the  canon's  side  is  slashed  with  a  deep  and 
rugged  cut  where  once  a  cloud-burst  struck  on  the 
crest  of  the  ridge,  and  the  water  came  plowing  a  fur 
row  down  the  mountain,  washing  away  everything  in 
its  course.  Boulders  have  been  carried  along  by  the 
force  of  the  flood.  In  the  wake  of  destruction  you 


In 

Quiet 

Canons 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Quiet 
Canons 


see  that  weeds  and  brushwood  were  bent  downward 
and  half  buried  in  the  soil;  and  there,  where  a  jutting 
ledge  caught  them  as  they  came  with  the  freshet,  are 
two  uprooted  trees. 

The  magpie  which  flew  up  from  the  spring  with  a 
hoarse  " Cheep!"  when  you  frightened  him  away,  sits 
tilting  backward  and  forward  on  a  branch  of  the  dead 
juniper,  regarding  you  with  evident  suspicion.  A 
chipmunk — brown-striped  and  bonny — on  the  highest 
point  of  the  granite  boulder,  is  saying  "Tst — tst — tst 
— tst"  in  a  nervous  flutter  of  excitement  at  your 
proximity.  Lower,  on  the  rock's  vertical  side,  a  little 
glossy  black  lizard  clings  motionless;  his  head  turned 
toward  where  you  are  lying.  He  is  ready  to  dart  out 
of  sight  if  you  but  move  a  finger.  A  big,  black-shelled 
beetle — tip-tilted,  with  its  nose  to  the  ground — is  going 
back  and  forth  in  desperation  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep 
and  dusty  hoof -print  just  beyond  the  spring.  Back 
and  forth,  round  and  round,  it  goes  in  a  frantic  and 
fruitless  endeavor  to  find  a  way  out  of  its  prison. 

The  moments  pass,  and  you  have  forgotten  to  reckon 
time.  Is  it  an  hour  you  have  been  here,  or  only  five 
minutes?  Through  half -closed  eyelids  you  have  been 
gazing,  but  they  are  falling  even  lower  and  lower. 
The  air  is  so  soft,  so  soothing  (for  you  are  a  bit  tired 
after  the  hours  you  have  been  in  the  saddle),  that  you 
are  carried  almost  to  the  gates  of  slumber. 

Hark!  What  was  that?  What  made  that  pebble 
come  rolling  down  the  hillside  just  over  there?  Lis 
ten! — !  With  bated  breath  you  strain  your  «ars,  but 
you  hear  nothing.  You  sit  up  and  look  intently  at  the 
spot  whence  came  the  small  rolling  stone.  There  is 
nothing  moving  there,  that  your  eyes  can  detect. 
From  top  to  bottom  of  the  canon's  sloping  sides,  you 
see  only  the  gray  of  granite  rocks,  and  bushes  of 
stunted  sage.  For  a  full  minute  and  more — alert  and 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


intent — you  watch  in  silence.  Then,  to  yourself,  you 
softly  say: 

"No,  there  is  nothing  there.  Strange,  though,  what 
started  that  stone  rolling  down!" 

Again  you  lie  back,  still  keeping  your  eyes,  however, 
on  the  spot  where  instinctively  you  feel  there  is  some 
thing  which  is  watching  you — something  which  notes 
your  every  movement,  though  you  can  not  see  it,  what 
ever  it  may  be.  Nothing  breaks  the  uniform  gray  of 
the  long  slope.  And  again  you  are  dominated  by  the 
supreme  stillness  of  this  quiet  canon.  For  a  long  time 
you  lie  so,  and  slumber  comes  creeping  back,  and 
almost  lays  her  gentle  touch  upon  your  eyelids, 
when — 

There!  What  is  that?  Ah!  something  is  moving 
there,  after  all!  Something  that  a  moment  ago  your 
eyes  rested  lightly  upon,  as  you  glanced  along  the 
sagebrush  of  the  hillside;  but  now  you  see  it  is  mov 
ing — coming  down  (oh!  so  carefully)  to  the  spring. 
Larger  than  a  barnyard  fowl,  and  not  quite  twenty 
feet  away,  now  you  see  the  sage-hen  which  your 
searching  eyes  could  not  hitherto  discover.  A  dozen 
times  in  the  past  ten  minutes  you  looked  directly  at 
her,  but  you  thought  it  only  a  bush  of  gray  sage.  In 
her  speckled  dress,  so  like  the  bushes  of  these  hills 
that  she  seems  to  be  one  of  them,  she  comes  cautiously, 
carefully,  slowly  down  the  slope.  How  slowly  she 
picks  her  way  that  her  approach  may  be  noiseless! 
See  how  carefully  she  lifts  her  foot  at  each  step 
she  takes!  Observe  her  head  turned  sidewise  as  she 
cautiously  looks  in  your  direction  to  see  if  she  dare 
venture  for  her  afternoon  drink!  See  how  she  avoids 
coming  out  into  the  open  places,  but  directs  her  course 
so  that  there  is  always  a  bunch  of  grass,  or  a  rock,  or 
a  bush  between  you  and  herself,  as  she  moves  toward 
her  goal!  She  has  seen  you,  you  know,  but  she  keeps 


In 

Quiet 
Canons 


10 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Quiet 
Canons 


bravely  on  to  the  spring.  How  near  she  is!  You  are 
sure  you  could  hit  her  with  one  of  the  bits  of  stone  at 
your  elbow,  were  you  to  try.  The  hunter's  instinct 
stirs  within  you;  but  as  you  carefully  raise  yourself 
on  your  arm,  half  tempted  to  test  the  accuracy  of  your 
aim,  there  is  a  whir  of  wings —  She  has  sailed  straight 
away  over  the  ridge,  without  an  instant's  warning,  and 
your  opportunity  is  gone. 

Whir!—!  Whir!—!  There  go  two  others!  Where 
did  they  start  from?  You  saw  them  not.  You  did 
not  even  guess  others  were  there.  You  had  forgotten 
how  you  might  stand  within  three  feet  of  one  of  these 
wary  sage  hens,  and — lest  it  move — you  would  pass  on 
without  knowing  its  presence.  Only  sharp  and  well- 
trained  eyes  may  discover  these  clever,  gray-robed 
birds  of  the  hills. 

As  you  spring  to  your  feet,  trying  to  follow  their 
flight  with  your  eyes,  a  dozen  others  take  wing — then 
two,  then  a  single  bird,  then  half  a  dozen  more — and 
the  whole  flock  of  a  score  sweeps  over  the  ridge  into 
the  next  ravine,  straight  as  the  arrow  shot  from  a  bow. 

All  these  canons  will  somewhere  show  you  quartz. 
Sometimes  of  little  worth;  but  silver  and  gold,  copper 
and  lead,  are  in  the  ledges  that  crop  out  everywhere. 
There  are  gorges  walled  with  granite  and  porphyry, 
and  the  walls  are  streaked  with  ledges  of  white  quartz. 
Night  comes  soon  in  these  deep-cleft  canons,  yet  in 
their  depths  are  creeks  where  riotous  sweet-brier 
blushes  and  blooms  when  the  melting  snows  of  the 
early  months  of  the  year  feed  the  streams,  filling  them 
bank-full  with  sparkling,  crystalline  waters. 

Riding  through  these  mountains,  some  day  you  will 
come  unexpectedly  upon  the  ruins  of  a  long-forgotten 
town,  relic  of  dead  mining  days.  Adobes  and  stones 
which  made  the  walls  of  the  houses  more  than  a  quar 
ter  of  a  century  ago,  are  now  crumbling — tumbling 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


down.  All  around  you  are  inclines,  and  tunnels,  and 
shafts;  their  entrances  choked  by  the  slipping,  sliding 
earth  which  Winter  brings  down  each  year  to  hide  the 
work  of  those  men  who  put  into  useless  labor,  heart  and 
soul,  and  the  best  efforts  of  a  long-gone  youth.  Time 
is  obliterating  their  work,  and  little  silvery  lizards, 
wearing  vermilion  collars,  hold  possession. 

Here  is  an  old  orchard  of  trees  which  no  longer  bear 
the  apples  and  peaches  or  the  pears  and  plums  that  the 
one  who  planted  in  youth's  hopeful  season  saw  hang 
ing  on  the  limbs.  Nature  is  taking  back  her  own ;  the 
canon  is  returning  to  its  wild  tangle  of  brush  and  vine. 

You  see  that  once,  in  the  long  ago  past,  some  one 
planted  locust  seeds  which  grew,  and  had  their  seasons 
of  blossom  and  of  seedtime,  in  turn  to  scatter  their 
own  seeds  broadcast,  and  a  little  grove  of  locust  trees 
has  sprung  up  in  what  was  once  the  town's  public 
thoroughfare. 

The  pallid  bloom  on  the  dead-ripe  fruit  of  the  elders 
catches  your  eye  as  you  ride  by.  Great  bunches  of 
berries,  that  soon  will  be  drying,  weigh  the  boughs 
down  till  they  rest  upon  the  growth  of  lower  bushes 
underneath. 

On  the  thorny  boughs  of  the  wild  gooseberry  little 
brown  birds  are  pecking  at  some  of  the  purple  fruit 
which  has  withered  in  the  Autumn  air. 

Choke-cherries  grow  here ;  black  and  shining,  though 
dried,  on  limbs  which  bend  so  low  you  bow  your  head 
as  you  ride  under  their  shade.  Beneath  their  thick 
screen  it  is  cool  and  dark.  They  grow  tall  and  strong, 
and  at  last  bar  your  way.  Turning  aside,  you  follow 
a  trail  along  the  hillside  to  where,  ahead,  you  see  an 
opening  in  the  grove.  Down  through  the  elders,  and 
red  willows,  and  quaking  asps  you  go.  The  leaves 
are  turning;  spots  of  brown  and  russet  shine  out  from 


In 

Quiet 

Canons 


12 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In 

Quiet 
Canons 


the  background  of  cool,  dark  green.  Orange  and  pal 
est  yellow,  crimson  and  vermilion  are  here. 

And  here,  in  a  group,  stand  a  dozen  dead  trees. 
Naked  of  leaf,  and  bleaching,  their  white  boles  and 
bare  boughs  show  with  the  delicacy  of  an  etching 
against  the  darkness  of  the  shadowed  growth  beyond. 
An  empty  nest — an  oriole's — swings  from  a  barren 
limb.  Higher,  are  sticks  and  ragged  stems  woven 
together  in  a  crotch  of  the  tree  where  a  hawk  has 
builded. 

Below  the  dead  grove,  is  a  living  one,  though  the 
leaves  are  yellow — a  sulphur  yellow — now.  The  top 
most  boughs  of  many  of  the  trees  are  caught  together 
in  a  tangle  of  wild  ivy.  Long  shadows  slant  across 
the  road,  and  through  the  waving  branches  of  the  cot 
ton-woods  rays  of  sunshine  fall  to  dance  along  your 
path. 

There  comes  into  your  mind  a  line  from  a  loved 
author:  "Through  the  shimmering  leaves  the  sun 
shine  drips  in  weightless  showers  of  gold."  Ah,  he 
who  wrote  the  words  is  one  who  lives  close  to  the  heart 
of  Nature!  He  writes  from  an  overflowing  soul;  and 
you,  in  reading,  are  thrilled  to  your  heart's  core  as  it 
beats  in  unison  with  the  heart  of  the  world  under  the 
influence  of  his  genius.  It  was  such  a  day  as  this,  you 
are  sure,  when  he  saw  the  dripping  yellow  of  the  sun, 
and  told  you  of  it  in  words  whose  memory  is  a  strain 
of  golden  melody  raining  down  on  you  as  you  ride. 

Ahead  of  you  a  cottontail  scurries  down  the  road 
way.  A  breeze  comes  comes  up  the  canon  and  plays 
about  you ;  but  so  delicate  and  light  a  thing  is  it,  noth 
ing  else  is  stirred  by  it  but  the  tendrils  of  hair  which 
grow  about  your  forehead,  and  which  the  little  wind 
lifts  and  lets  fall — over  and  over  again — as  if  hiding 
tender,  little  kisses  underneath.  Soft  as  a  baby's  hand 
on  your  face  is  its  touch  on  your  eyelids  and  your 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


13 


cheek.  You  look  about  you  and  find  that  no  other 
thing  is  being  moved  by  it;  no  spear  of  grass,  or  leaf 
of  bush  or  tree  is  trembling  in  the  silent  atmosphere. 
It  is  only  here  by  you — for  you.  To  you  alone  are 
whispered  the  secrets  which  your  willing  ears  are  lis 
tening  to;  on  your  face  only  fall  the  lingering,  cling 
ing  caresses.  When  you  ride  forward,  it  goes  with 
you;  when  you  stop — made  glad  by  its  touch — it  en 
circles  you  as  if  it  were  some  creature  of  sentient  life. 
Then,  as  you  ride  on  down  the  trail,  it  goes  with  you, 
following  you  to  the  end. 

Presently  you  hear  the  roar  of  water  rushing  over 
the  rocks  down  in  the  gorge.  Guided  by  the  sound, 
your  eye  finds  a  succession  of  laughing,  tumbling,  rol 
licking  cascades,  and  leaping,  plunging  waterfalls. 
But  another  roaring  comes  up  the  canon,  not  from  the 
wind  or  the  waters.  Up  from  the  valley  it  comes, 
bearing  to  your  ears  a  sound  that — increasing  in 
volume  each  moment — is  like  that  of  the  mighty  storm- 
driven  winds  of  the  mountain  as  they  sweep  down 
from  the  snow  heights  in  Winter.  Away  down — so 
far — perhaps  half  a  dozen  miles  beneath  you  and  away 
to  the  plains,  a  freight-train  is  creeping  along  the  twin 
threads  of  shining  steel  that  are  the  bands  binding 
the  West  to  the  East. 

You  are  so  close  to  the  civilized  world,  and  yet  so 
remote!  How  good  a  thing  it  seems  to  be  away  from 
the  petty  meannesses  of  the  daily  routine  of  your  life 
in  a  bickering,  bartering,  bullying  world  of  mankind 
and  money-making! 

When  you  dismount  to  examine  a  seam  of  quartz 
running  down  the  face  of  a  porphyry  cliff,  and  before 
turning  away,  stand  there  a  moment  in  the  shadow  of 
its  great  height,  with  your  cheek  laid  close  to  its  cool 
surface,  you  seem  to  hear  it  saying  to  you : 

"Why  go  away?    Stay,  and  I  will  tell  you  secrets 


In 

Quiet 
Canons 


14 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In 

Qqiet 

Canons 


of  what  is  hidden  hundreds  of  feet  down  where  the 
quartz  seam  goes.  Do  you  want  to  know  how  it  will 
be  in  a  thousand  years?  Do  you  wonder  if  the  delight 
ful  solitude  of  my  canons  will  still  be  unbroken,  or  if 
in  the  world's  transformation  they  will  have  been 
changed  with  all  else  in  a  world  made  of  changes? 
Do  not  go.  Be  wise,  and  stay  in  the  mountains.  Why 
go  back  to  the  places  where  men  toil  and  drudge,  and 
moil  and  slave  just  for  the  few  short  years  which  they 
can  call  their  own?  How  they  labor  and  weep !  How 
they  work  and  worry!  And  for  what?  Stay,  let  me 
teach  you  the  lesson  of  life.  Let  me  show  you  how  to 
read  its  teachings  aright.  Take  no  heed  of  that  world 
where  busy  men  fret  their  days  out  in  trying  to  solve 
the  problem  of  how  they  should  live,  and — ere  the 
lesson  is  learned — return  to  the  dust  from  whence  they 
came.  I  am  here  through  all  the  fretting  and  fuming 
of  puny  man;  fire  and  flood,  war  and  pestilence  may 
come  and  go,  yet  I  endure — impassive — immutable — 
eternal.  Ah,  if  you  but  turn  to  me  to  learn  how  to  live 
a  life  of  perfect  calm  and  peace  I  would  lead  you  to 
those  places  where  in  the  clefts  and  chasms  Nature 
stands  ready  to  fold  round  you  that  shelter  and  quiet 
which  enwrap  one  as  with  a  garment." 

The  place  and  the  hour  have  so  strongly  influenced 
your  mental  being  that  it  is  with  an  effort  you  now 
rouse  yourself  and  move  on.  Even  as  you  ride  away 
from  this  canon  into  another  you  are  still  musing  on 
the  wonderful  ways  of  the  wise  old  world  when  these 
mountains  lay  under  glacial  ice  aeons  ago — in  ages  of 
which  we  know  nothing.  Thinking  and  thinking,  the 
hours  slide  by  without  your  ken,  and  the  day  is  almost 
done.  Katydids  and  crickets  fill  the  late  afternoon 
with  their  shrilling.  Dry  grasses  in  the  trail  are  be 
ginning  to  shiver  in  the  evening  wind.  Daylight  has 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


15 


vanished  so  swiftly  that  darkness  encompasses  you  ere 
you  are  aware. 

From  far  up  in  the  topmost  branches  of  a  half-dead 
tree  comes  a  sharp  noise — the  sudden  snapping  of  dry 
twigs.  Startled  at  the  sound,  your  horse  springs 
quickly  aside  from  the  trail,  and  your  own  heart  is  set 
to  throbbing  violently  in  your  throat.  As  you  chirrup 
to  him  to  urge  him  to  faster  speed,  an  owl  flies  forth 
with  slow-flapping  wings,  disappearing  in  the  gather 
ing  darkness. 

You  raise  your  eyes  aloft  and  look  into  the  measure 
less  deep  of  the  Heavens.  Faint  stars  are  coming  in 
the  twilight  sky. 


In 

Quiet 

Canons 


THE  QUAIL'S  CANON. 

RISTLING  with  rocky  cliffs  and  deep 
ravines — its  face  is  furrowed  and  scarred 
where  cloudbursts  have  warred  their 
way;  but  all  softly  beautiful  in  its 
blending  of  violet-blues  and  shadowy 
purples  as  you  view  it  from  afar,  is  this 
rugged  mountain  where — in  the  long  ago — miners  and 
prospectors  burrowed  its  sides  full  of  holes,  as  the 
badgers  burrow  the  plains  away  down  below,  making 
their  tunnels  and  inclines  and  shafts  in  the  quest  for 
silver.  For  these  things  of  which  I  tell  you,  happened 
in  the  days  when  silver,  not  gold,  was  the  metal  men 
went  a-seeking. 

Ledges  were  there  in  every  cliff;  and  in  a  sunny- 
canon  lying  to  the  west  they  built  their  cabins,  setting 
them  in  two  long  rows  at  the  sides  of  the  creek  that 
came  down  in  rowdy  fashion  (making  much  noise,  and 
taking  up  much  room)  after  it  left  the  sky-line  where 
it  was  born  under  the  melting  edges  of  the  snow-banks. 
The  mining  camp  nestled  happily  between  two  un 
even  ridges ;  and  there  it  grew  lustily,  and  the  miners 
called  it  a  "city,"  and  great  things  were  expected  of 
it.  A  busy,  hopeful  little  community  it  was  which  had 
gathered  there  in  those  old  days  of  honest  endeavor 
and  steadfast  work ;  and  all  signs  pointed  (they  would 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


17 


tell  you)  to  the  time  that  it  would  become  a  great  silver 
camp.  But  ''all  signs  fail  in  dry  weather";  and  al 
though  it  was  indeed  a  dry  land,  and  although  there 
came  seasons  of  unprecedented  wet,  and  snow,  and 
cold,  as  in  other  lands,  one  could  not  tell  if  it  was  in 
spite  of  the  signs,  or  because  of  them,  that  none  of  the 
good  things  prophesied  and  hoped-for  ever  came  true. 

The  mountain  was  a  network  of  ledges,  and  in  them 
silver  was  found  in  abundance.  Willing  hands  were 
ready  to  do  the  work — the  hands  of  men  who  were 
young  and  brave  and  strong  as  they  must  be  who  go 
to  blaze  the  way  through  a  new  country.  But  a  score 
of  unforeseen  difficulties  leagued  against  them,  and  as 
they  saw  their  chances  for  success  diminish,  their  num 
bers  decreased — they  drifted  away,  one  after  another, 
going  back  to  the  old  homes  in  the  cities  from  whence 
they  came. 

First  one  cabin,  then  another,  became  tenantless — 
each  owner  taking  with  him  all  that  was  possible  for 
him  to  carry.  Down  along  the  home  road  to  the  sea, 
they  would  find  purchasers  for  all  which  they  had  no 
use  for;  so  windows,  and  doors,  and  roofing  were 
taken  away,  to  be  sold  to  other  miners  in  other  canons 
farther  toward  the  West.  Lumber  was  priceless  in  a 
land  which  had  neither  railways  nor  water  transporta 
tion. 

Far  away,  across  a  continent,  a  civil  war  was  rend 
ing  our  country,  but  the  meager  news  which  came  to 
the  miners  in  the  isolated  canon  seemed  but  as  a  story. 
Letters  and  newspapers  must  journey  many  a  week 
ere  ships,  and  ponies  could  bring  them  to  their  destina 
tion.  "The  world  forgetting,  and  by  the  world  for 
got,"  the  few  who  were  left  there  numbered  but  two 
score  when  the  Winter  of  the  Great  Snow  descended 
on  them. 

Their  supplies — cached  in  abandoned  tunnels — had 


The 

Quail's 

Canon 


18 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


been  growing  less  and  less,  with  no  immediate  means 
of  being  renewed.  Each  man  was  looking  forward  to 
the  Spring  when  he,  too,  would  return  to  the  Coast. 
There  would  be  enough  to  carry  them  through  the  Win 
ter  months,  if  the  season  were  short,  and  nothing  un 
foreseen  occurred.  They  had  ammunition  in  camp — 
not  much,  but  what  seemed  to  be  enough  for  their 
needs;  and  rabbits  were  to  be  had  for  the  shooting, 
while  powder  and  shot  lasted.  Other  fresh  meat,  there 
was  none.  They  now  saw,  only  too  well,  how  great  a 
mistake  it  had  been  for  them  to  remain  behind  the 
others.  It  was  too  late  in  the  season  for  them  to  start 
back  on  the  long  trail  toward  the  sea.  They  must  wait 
for  Spring  to  open.  Winter  would  be  upon  them  soon. 

Winter  came — came  cruelly,  that  year.  What  man 
among  them  ever  forgot  it  while  he  lived! 

The  sun  went  out  of  the  sky,  and  darker  and  darker 
grew  the  heavens.  There  was  no  wind.  Nothing  but 
a  leaden  stillness.  Then  the  heavy  skies  began  to  sift 
soft  flakes  of  snow  earthward.  At  first,  they  came  fine 
as  the  grains  of  alkali  dust  that  had  been  whirled  up 
by  the  Summer  winds  down  on  the  dreary  plains. 
Larger,  and  larger  they  grew  as  they  hurried  onward 
toward  the  little  colony  in  the  canon.  From  big  flakes, 
they  grew  into  great  snow-feathers ;  and  these  came  so 
fast  and  so  thick,  that  the  sky  which  had  been  dark 
ened  was  now  white  from  the  flakes,  and  shut  out  the 
leaden-colored  roof  of  their  little  world. 

Under  the  snow-drifts,  where  the  wild  rose-bushes 
and  willows  made  a  shelter  for  the  stream,  the  creek 
shouted  and  laughed  at  their  dismay  and  dread,  and 
went  babbling  on  down  to  the  desert  where  the  road 
was  snowed  under,  and  where  no  living  thing  moved 
across  the  shoreless,  silent,  ghostly  sea. 

There  were  nights  when  the  storm  roused  itself  to  a 
fury  that  brought  winds  down  from  the  heights  roar- 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


19 


ing  like  wild  beasts  roaming  through  the  canon.  The 
storm  in  its  frenzy  would  beat  against  the  rocks  as 
though  to  rend  them  from  their  very  foundations ;  and 
then  would  go  shrieking  over  the  ridge,  and  away. 
Morning  would  come,  and  the  storm-fury  would  have 
spent  itself;  but  not  the  snow.  Always,  and  always 
it  snowed.  Each  day  dawned  upon  down-drifting 
flakes  which  fell  upon  a  world  of  unearthly  silence. 

There  was  no  work  done  among  the  men.  Who 
could  climb  the  mountain-sides  to  the  tunnels  and 
inclines?  For  more  than  three  weeks  they  had  been 
without  tea,  or  coffee,  or  flour,  bacon,  or  beans,  or  any 
of  the  things  they  most  needed  to  ward  off  starvation. 
For  a  man  may  starve,  even  with  food  to  eat,  if  it  be 
not  the  right  sort.  There  were  yet  a  few  articles  of 
food — though  little  else  than  sugar  and  dried  "jerky." 
Not  many  of  the  men  had  ever  been  without  wholesome 
food  before — most  of  them  were  from  the  East,  from 
the  cities.  The  hard  life  began  to  tell  on  them.  They 
grew  thin;  grew  weak — very  weak.  Some  among 
them  sickened,  and  lay  down  too  ill  to  care  what  the 
end  might  be. 

Then  the  first  one  died.  Not  much  more  than  a  boy, 
and  unused  to  hardships — unable  to  stand  the  rough 
fare,  he  died  for  the  lack  of  nourishing  food.  It  was 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  Virginia  City,  where 
there  were  both  food  and  medicine  to  be  had;  but  who 
could  make  the  trip  in  the  face  of  the  relentless  storm 
which  daily  piled  higher  and  higher  the  white  barriers 
between  them  and  that  distant  help! 

So  Gilbert  Bend  died — died  just  as  the  storm, 
wearied  of  its  weeks  of  warring,  ceased.  The  flakes  at 
last  stopped  floating  earthward — stopped  suddenly  one 
day ;  and  there  was  the  sun !  But  oh !  what  a  world  it 
showed.  A  vast,  trackless  waste  of  dazzling  white, 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


20 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


unrelieved  by  even  a  solitary  touch  of  any  color  or 
shading.  Snowed  in. 

In  the  center  of  the  town,  among  the  deserted  stores, 
was  a  saloon,  also  deserted.  It  was  the  one  building 
there  having  a  floor.  This,  they  tore  up ;  and  making 
a  rude  box  from  the  boards  thus  obtained,  they  laid 
in  it  the  body  of  their  dead  comrade.  Then,  taking  it 
on  their  shoulders,  the  six  strongest  men  among  them 
bore  it  down  to  the  top  of  the  mesa  where  others — ere 
the  storm  had  fallen — had  been  buried  before.  Plow 
ing  their  way  through  the  soft  drifts  of  blinding 
whiteness,  under  the  warmth  of  the  dazzling  noon-day 
sun,  they  came  at  last  to  the  rocky  point  amid  the  foot 
hills.  Two,  who  had  broken  a  trail  there  before  them, 
had  the  shallow  grave  ready;  and  there  they  laid  him 
away — one  of  the  unknown  Trail-Makers  of  the  West 
— while,  together,  they  sang  a  hymn  that  most  of  them 
knew,  and  had  sung  in  the  old  days  "back  home." 
Then  one — his  partner — tried  to  speak  of  the  dead,  but 
sobbing  turned  away;  and  so  they  slowly  tramped 
back  through  the  heavy  drifts  to  their  cabins. 

When  the  first  rider  made  his  way  into  the  canon, 
after  the  suns  of  many  days  had  made  the  roads  pass 
able,  the  men  whom  he  found  were  very  near  to  star 
vation;  and  some  who  had  been  among  the  number 
when  the  first  flakes  of  the  great  snow  had  fallen,  were 
no  longer  there.  Again — and  again  had  the  old  saloon- 
floor  gone  to  the  making  of  the  rough  boxes,  which  the 
few  who  were  left  had  carried  down  to  the  lonely  mesa 
where  they  left  their  dead  comrades  to  sleep  in  an 
unkind  land.  So  the  trail  grew  wider,  and  the  drifts 
were  beaten  down  by  the  feet  that  passed  on  the  way. 

Years  came  and  went ;  yet  never  again  did  the  snow 
fall  as  it  fell  that  year;  the  year  that  (far  away)  Lee 
had  marched  "horse  and  foot  into  Fredericktown. " 
To  the  East,  they  counted  time  by  the  great  battles; 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


21 


here — in  the  West — events  were  dated  from  the  "Win 
ter  of  the  Great  Snow."  Now,  time  dulls  the  sharp 
edges  of  history,  and  finally  there  were  those  (they 
were  new-comers  in  the  country)  who  said  it  was  but 
a  fanciful  story — that  no  such  heavy  snows  had  ever 
fallen.  But  the  old  men  of  the  old  days,  shook  their 
gray  heads,  knowing  better. 

Colonists  had  come  into  the  country  since  that  time, 
and  had  made  their  homes.  A  railroad  cut  across  the 
flat  valley.  Other  canons  now  held  other  camps;  but 
this  one  still  remained  deserted.  The  last  man  had 
gone,  long  before.  Not  a  roof  was  left ;  only  the  melt 
ing  adobe  walls  showed  where  the  houses  had  been,  or 
the  fallen  stones  marked  the  site  of  a  miner's  cabin. 

The  last  to  go  was  the  first  to  build  in  the  valley. 
Down  there,  in  the  midst  of  green  fields  and  orchards 
which  he  planted,  was  the  home  of  one  of  the  pioneers. 
He  plowed  and  planted;  and  he  prospered.  And  he 
was  content  in  the  home  he  had  made ;  and  was  happy. 
A  grove  grew  up  of  trees  that  were  his  planting;  and 
birds  came  to  the  trees,  as  birds  come  whenever  and 
wherever  trees  are  made  to  grow  in  desert-land.  Birds 
in  numbers  came,  and  of  many  kinds.  Yet  what  the 
man  wanted  to  see  were  quail — the  mountain  and  val 
ley  quail  he  had  known  long  before,  in  his  life  among 
the  poppies  and  pines  of  California.  Try  as  he  would, 
he  could  never  quite  forget  those  days  when  he  had 
carried  a  gun  across  his  shoulder  along  the  Contra  Costa 
foothills.  He  was  lonely  for  quail! 

Back  in  the  old  days  they  had  been  the  oftenest-seen 
birds  about  him — those  speckled  black  and  steel  fellows 
of  the  field,  trig  and  trim ;  with  cousins  on  the  uplands, 
that  flash  a  ruddy-brown  wing  past  your  sight  as  they 
take  flight.  There  were  larks,  and  robins,  and  doves 
here  in  the  canons;  and  on  the  heights  were  great 
flocks  of  sage-chickens ;  and  water-fowl  of  many  kinds 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 

Canon 


were  down  on  the  river,  but  he  longed  for  the  sound  of 
the  quail-call,  and  the  sight  of  their  whirring  flight — 
the  quail  of  the  valleys  and  mountains  of  California! 

Persistent  were  the  recollections  that  haunted  him  of 
old  hunting  days;  and  he  spent  many  hours  thinking, 
and  thinking.  Finally  he  said  to  himself,  that  there 
was  but  one  thing  to  be  done — to  fetch  them  over  the 
Sierras,  from  the  fields  and  foothills  beyond,  and  then 
wait  until  their  numbers  multiplied. 

So  crate  after  crate  of  trapped  birds  came  over  in 
that  first  season  when  the  trans-continental  railroad 
was  an  established  fact.  Valley  quail,  and  mountain 
quail,  both.  Crate  after  crate,  and  still  more  and 
more.  And  all  were  taken  up  to  the  canons  where 
there  was  plenty  of  water,  and  the  wild  grasses  which 
yielded  seeds;  and  there  they  were  turned  loose — 
scattering  over  the  ridges  or  scurrying  into  the  brush. 
There  in  the/  old  deserted  "city"  they  were  freed;  and 
among  the  tall,  blossoming  weeds,  and  the  spicy  juni 
pers  on  the  hillsides. 

The  little  emigrants  took  very  kindly  to  the  change ; 
and  another  year  saw  several  flocks  far  from  the  range 
where  they  had  been  given  their  freedom. 

Most  Indians  have  as  great  a  sense  of  honor  as  have 
some  white  men  in  respecting  the  rights  of  others 
when  not  protected  by  law,  and  the  Paiutes — when 
they  came  to  understand  the  purpose  of  bringing  the 
stranger  birds — were  as  zealous  as  the  white  man  in 
their  joint  guardianship  of  the  new  bird-colony.  No 
one  seemed  to  have  any  thought  of  hunting  them — 
they  had  become  a  sort  of  public  charge.  They  multi 
plied  amazingly.  On  the  hills  they  were  as  numerous 
as  were  the  jackrabbits  down  along  the  valley.  Away 
off  in  other  ranges — in  canons  miles  and  miles  away 
— across  the  valleys  that  lay  between,  and  where  on 
the  mountain-sides  green  spots  marked  springs  and 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


shade,  one  could  always  find  flocks  coming  in  to  water. 
They  were  everywhere! 

At  last  they  were  plentiful  enough  that  the  sports 
man  might  be  allowed  to  hunt  them;  and  for  one 
short,  sport-full  season  (when  everyone  went  gunning) 
did  the  hunters  have  their  will.  Only  one. 

Then,  with  no  foreshadowing  of  that  which  was  to 
come,  there  fell  upon  the  land  a  Winter  more  terrible 
in  its  bitter  chill  than  that  other  one,  more  than  five- 
and-twenty  years  before,  when  the  little  handful  of 
early  prospectors  in  the  snowbound  canon  waited 
through  the  long,  white  silence  for  the  coming  of  the 
Spring.  Earlier — much  earlier  than  had  ever  been  its 
wont,  did  the  storms  begin.  Nor  was  it  rain  that 
came,  as  in  the  other  years.  Rains  softened  the  brush, 
and  swelled  the  seeds  among  the  dried  grasses  and 
weeds  on  the  mesas  where  the  sheep  and  cattle  grazed. 
Rain  was  good.  Here,  too,  had  the  quail  thrived,  even 
as  they  had  in  their  home  on  the  other  side  of  the 
high  Sierras.  But  with  deep  snows  overlying  the 
land — !  What  were  the  little  emigrants  to  do  in  their 
struggle  to  live  if  the  wild  elements  waged  battle 
against  them?  How  were  their  small  hearts  to  keep 
on  beating  throughout  the  chill  Winter,  and  until  the 
warmth  of  the  Spring  suns  should  set  all  the  little 
creeks  and  rills  running  down  the  rugged  old  moun 
tain's  canons  and  crevasses,  to  bring  the  grasses  again? 
On  mountain  and  plain  were  the  wild  things — helpless 
furred  and  feathered  creatures,  who  would  find  death 
in  the  storms  if  they  were  many  or  long. 

So  the  days  went  by;  and  on  the  plains  the  snow 
fell  so  deep  that  the  chill  layers  of  ghostly  white  hid 
the  brush  and  sage  as  completely  as  though  they  had 
been  sucked  down  and  swallowed  by  these  quicksands 
of  the  Winter. 

Along  the  foothills  where  the  valley  quail  had  loved 


The 

Quail's 

Canon 


24 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


to  run,  the  drifts  filled  the  shallow  ravines;  on  the 
higher  elevations — where  among  the  rocks  and  stunted 
junipers  the  mountain  quail  had  lived  and  found  life 
good — now  the  sharp  outlines  were  smoothed  out  under 
the  rounded  whiteness.  Farther  down,  in  the  valley, 
the  river  ranches  were  blotted  out.  Snowflakes — like 
grains  of  icy  sand — fell  thickly,  steadily,  gently;  with 
that  soft  insistence  which  is  harder  to  do  battle  against 
than  fire  or  flood.  Then  winds — cruelly  cold,  and  deal 
ing  death  where  they  touched  animal  life — would  come 
and  whirl  the  sharp  grains  (fine  and  dry  as  sand)  into 
high  drifts  which — in  turn — were  buried  under  the 
stinging  flakes  that  were  ever  falling — falling — falling, 
until  it  was  once  again  a  vast,  unsounded  level. 

From  the  high  lands  where  they  grazed,  the  storm 
drove  the  stock  into  the  valleys  where  it  followed 
them,  and  where  they  died.  Sheep  dropped  by  the 
thousands  at  its  icy  touch ;  cattle  weakened — staggered 
— fell.  The  birds  and  the  four-footed  wild  things 
came  down  out  of  the  mountains,  no  longer  afraid,  and 
too  weak  to  flee.  They,  too,  like  the  sheep  and  the 
cattle,  died  as  though  a  pestilence  had  swept  over  the 
land.  So  they  died  everywhere,  and  each  day  the  num 
ber  grew. 

There  were  times  when  a  sickly  sun  tried  to  shine 
from  out  the  sky,  only  to  be  beaten  back  by  the  storm. 
Colder  and  colder  grew  the  days;  lower  and  lower 
fell  the  mercury.  Five  below  zero.  Ten.  Then  eigh 
teen — twenty — thirty — thirty -six!  The  stoves  were 
kept  (nine  of  them)  choked  with  the  hardwood 
crowded  in;  and  all  day  the  fires  roared  up  the  chim 
neys,  and  red-hot  patches  glowed  on  their  iron  sides. 
More  than  half  the  night  the  fires  burned;  but  by  and 
by  they  would  die  down,  and  in  those  early  hours  of 
the  new  day,  one  could  hear  the  crack  and  creak  of  the 
timbers  as  the  house  grew  colder. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


25 


Morning  brought  increased  labors  to  keep  alive  the 
suffering  animals  that  turned  to  man  in  their  ex 
tremity.  Life  resolved  itself  into  a  monotonous  repe 
tition  of  those  duties  that  were  most  necessary  for  the 
present  hour.  No  one  looked  ahead;  no  one  dared. 
It  would  be  time  enough  for  the  cattle-owner  to  count 
the  fearful  cost  when  Spring  should  come,  and  he  rode 
the  range  and  reckoned  up  his  losses.  Now  he  must 
see  that  his  men  hauled  feed  to  the  cattle  that  were  too 
weak  to  get  on  their  feet;  that  the  ice  was  cut  in  the 
river  so  that  horses  and  cattle  might  drink;  that  snow 
enough  was  melted  for  household  needs  (for  the  water- 
pipes  had  long  ago  frozen  and  burst) ;  that  the  wood- 
boxes  were  heaped  high  with  split  logs ;  that  the  bread, 
and  meat,  and  milk  was  thawed — freed  from  the  flakes 
of  ice  that  they  gathered. 

Up  the  valley  where  the  railroad  ran,  the  tracks  were 
under  the  snow.  Over  them  had  no  wheel  passed  for 
seventeen  long  days.  Blockaded.  The  great,  mon 
strous  machinery  of  man's  making,  with  its  noise  and 
its  grime,  was  silenced — its  strength  and  power  crushed 
out  by  this  soft,  white,  silent  thing  that  never  missed 
one  day  out  of  the  twenty-seven  in  falling. 

When  the  frost,  and  the  cold,  and  the  drifting  snow 
were  gone,  and  the  sun  came  back,  it  shone  on  a  crystal 
world.  We  looked  out  over  a  wide,  trackless,  shipless, 
chartless  sea  of  eye-tiring  snow-fields.  But  it  stormed 
no  more. 

And  the  quail? 

Poor  little  emigrants  into  an  unkind  country!  For 
more  than  five  years  thereafter  no  one  ever  saw  any 
quail.  We  looked  for  them  whenever  we  rode  through 
canons,  or  over  the  mesas.  It  was  always  the  same — 
never  a  one  did  we  see.  And  we  mourned  for  them, 
as  we  do  for  things  that  have  eaten  out  of  our  hand; 


The 
Quail's 

Canon 


26 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 

Canon 


for  had  we  not  guarded  them  as  something  that  was 
our  very  own?  They  had  all  perished,  we  said,  the 
cold  had  been  too  severe  for  the  strangers-to-snow. 

Then,  one  day  riding  up  through  a  wash  all  filled 
with  tall  rabbit-brush,  and  wild  plum-bushes,  I  saw  a 
touch  of  red-brown  on  a  wing  that  flashed  across  my 
sight,  and  my  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  A  quail! 
Then  a  long  time  went  by  before  I  saw  another.  Then 
others  saw  them,  too.  Sometimes  a  pair;  then  a  small 
flock.  Then  another — a  larger  one;  and  another  one 
— and  another. 

And  now?  The  quail  have  come  again!  We  say 
"come  again"  because  we  hate  to  think  of  those  that 
met  the  chill  of  that  awful  Winter,  and  with  the  horses 
and  cattle,  and  sheep  on  the  ranges,  died  by  the  hun 
dreds — thousands.  Hunters,  we,  and  we  have  no  com 
punction  in  going  forth  with  dog  and  gun,  and  filling 
the  game-bag.  But  one  would  be  less  than  human  to 
think  unmovedly  of  the  slow  death  by  starvation  and 
cold  that  came  to  so  many  birds  and  beasts  that  Win 
ter  of  'eighty-eight  and  'nine.  So  we  would  rather 
persuade  ourselves  that  the  quail  which  are  now  in  the 
mountains,  are  the  same  bonny  little  feathered  friends 
that  took  up  their  habitation  there  so  long  ago.  Once 
again  they  are  everywhere.  Once  again  the  flocks  have 
increased  sufficiently  to  permit  one  shooting  them  with 
out  fear  of  extermination.  Once  again  they  are  on 
every  mountain,  and  on  the  low-lying  foothills.  There 
are  fewer  of  the  valley  quail,  however,  than  there  are 
of  their  little  relatives. 

Yes ;  they  have  ' '  come  back  again. ' '  But  the  great 
est  numbers  have  gone  to  that  canon  where  the  miners 
lived  the  Winter  of  the  first  great  snow.  It  was  the 
quail's  first  home;  for  there  it  was  that  they  were 
loosed  in  the  year  they  were  brought  from  beyond  the 
snow  mountains. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


27 


Chinese  placer  miners  working  in  the  creek  found 
gold — much  gold;  but  the  silver  ledges  still  lie  on  the 
hillsides  undisturbed,  the  tunnel  entrances  choked  with 
thistles  and  briar  bushes.  No  longer  do  men  go 
a-search  for  silver.  Only  gold — in  the  ledges  up  above, 
or  down  on  the  bed-rock  of  the  water  course — lures 
them  in  their  quests.  The  little  yellow-skinned  men  of 
the  Orient  came,  and  went,  and  came  again.  They 
made  their  dug-outs  in  the  banks  back  from  the  gray 
and  crumbling  walls  which  were  built  by  miners  of 
old.  Up  and  down  the  creek  bed  they  move  so  noise 
lessly,  working  with  pick  and  pan,  that  one  can  very 
easily  fancy  them  but  gray  ghosts  haunting  the  quiet 
canons,  even  as  the  shadowy  wraiths  of  the  dead  years 
linger  about  the  unroofed  walls  and  weed-grown  trails. 
Silently  they  go  about  their  work,  leaving  the  quail 
to  go  their  ways. 

If  you  go  among  the  old  adobes  and  fallen  stone  walls 
in  the  ruined  town,  you  will  see  them  scurrying  by 
twos  and  threes  out  of  the  tumble-down,  crumbling 
cabins,  to  find  hiding  places  in  the  tall  rabbit-wood  or 
sage-brush;  or — flushing  by  flocks — to  sail  straight 
away  to  the  hillsides.  It  is  the  quail's  canon.  Once 
again  they  claim  the  solitude  of  the  place  as  their  own. 
Before  they  went  away  they  were  less  shy  than  now; 
for  they  are  beginning  to  know  the  fear  of  man.  A 
while  back,  in  the  peace  of  the  tumbling  walls,  there 
came  no  more  disturbing  sound  to  the  canon  than  the 
rumble  of  the  train  down  on  the  desert,  or  the  far 
away  shriek  of  its  whistle.  But  they  have  learned  a 
new  sound,  and  with  it  has  come  fear. 

The  sunlight  lies  warm  on  the  hillsides ;  and  the  soft 
West  winds  come  to  rattle  the  pods  of  dried  weeds, 
shaking  the  seeds  in  showers  to  the  ground.  The 
quail  run  hither  and  thither,  undisturbed  by  the  sea 
sons  or  the  little  yellow  men  working  among  the  gravel 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Quail's 
Canon 


and  boulders  in  the  bottom  of  the  creek ;  but  away  up 
on  the  slope  where  the  brush  and  bunch-grass  does 
not  grow  so  thick,  you  hear  the  crack  of  a  breech 
loader  where  some  hunter  has  gone  hunting.  It  is  the 
sound  the  quail  have  learned  to  fear. 


HAWKS. 


OUR  heart-throbs  are  quickened  at  the 
sight  of  a  beautiful  painting?  Your 
blood  bounds  when  you  look  on  a  mag 
nificent  picture?  Yes?  Then  come 
with  me  to  a  rough  stone  cabin  I  know 
— built  away  up  on  the  side  of  a  great 
mountain,  yet  walled  about  by  still  greater  heights, 
and  set  upon  a  shelf  of  rock  overhanging  a  gorge  where 
winds  and  waters  make  music  all  day  and  all  night 
— and  there,  standing  before  the  east  window,  I  will 
show  you  that  which  (for  the  brief  little  hour  you  may 
stay)  shall  delight  you;  even  as,  day  after  day,  I,  too, 
am  made  glad  through  its  exquisite  charm. 

You  love  color,  and  form,  and  sound  when — fresh 
from  Nature's  touch — they  have  not  yet  been  marred 
by  the  clumsy  handling  of  Man?  Then  shall  you  revel 
in  the  beauties  of  this  picture — a  picture  I  have  framed 
only  with  the  unpainted  pine  casing  about  the  window 
sash;  where  the  ledge  is  littered  with  matches  and 
candles,  cards  and  cartridges,  and  numerous  specimens 
of  gold  quartz. 

You  do  not  see  these  things,  though;  you  look  be 
yond.  Here!  let  me  slide  back  the  window  in  its 
grooves,  that  there  shall  be  no  glass,  even,  between 
you  and  the  picture's  perfection. 


30 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Hawks 


Pouff — ff!  The  winds  come  in  with  a  rush;  and 
there  is  a  tempestuous  sweeping  of  loose  letters  from 
the  bare  table,  and  these  go  sliding  over  the  plank 
floor;  while  it  sets  papers  and  magazine  leaves  a-flut- 
tering  noisily  where  they  lie.  The  winds  surge  and 
swell  through  the  canon.  Within,  they  have  madly 
invaded  our  calm,  and  in  an  instant  the  supreme  quiet 
which  was  erst  ours  is  changed  to  movement  and 
sound.  What  mightily  magnificent  winds  these  are! 
Gods  of  Olympus!  did  you  ever  know  their  like  on 
your  heights !  I  doubt  if  you  ever  felt  about  you  such 
winds  as  these.  Ah!  but  their  rough  tug  and  tussle 
is  good  to  feel !  And  we  stand  here  in  their  boisterous 
company,  looking  out  of  the  wide-set  window  through 
which  they  entered,  and  behold  the  picture  I  have 
brought  you  to  see. 

A  Picture  of  Hawks! 

Porphyry  that  counts  its  height  in  feet  which  meas 
ure  hundreds,  reaching  from  the  thicket-hidden  creek 
to  the  sapphire  sky,  is  the  background.  But  such  a 
wall!  Sheer;  yet  of  splintered  facing  which  holds  a 
thousand  varying  forms,  as  light  and  shadow  move 
across  it.  Rent  and  riven;  battered  by  Time  and 
broken  by  the  elements,  it  is  a  wealth  of  shading  and 
form  to  the  picture  lover.  The  ruddy-brown  surface 
is  splotched  with  lichens — yellow  as  sulphur,  gray  as 
dead  ashes,  velvety-black  as  soot.  All  up  and  down 
its  perpendicular  face — in  the  crevices — have  roots  of 
a  little  stiff-leaved  plant  found  place  to  hold;  the 
dark-green,  short-stemmed  foliage  growing  in  matted 
patches,  indifferent  to  the  buffetings  of  the  wind. 
This  is  the  Home  of  the  Wind.  Daily  it  comes  with 
the  first  afternoon  slant  of  the  purple  shadows,  to  die 
away  before  dusk.  It  roars  and  rushes  through  the 
canon  wildly  enough  now;  but  it  will  go  down  with 
the  down-going  of  the  sun,  and  only  the  faintest  breeze 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


31 


— soft  and  murmurous — will  linger  on  these  heights 
through  the  star-lit  night. 

Two-thirds  up  the  way  of  the  great  cliff  is  a  little 
shelf — not  more  than  a  double  hand-span  in  width — 
where  a  hawk  has  built  her  nest.  The  gorge,  deep  as 
it  is,  is  narrow,  very  narrow;  the  sunlight  only  find 
ing  its  way  to  the  bottom  hours  after  its  yellow  shine 
has  brightened  all  the  valley  and  outer  slopes.  So  little 
is  the  space  between  wall  and  wall,  that  you  and  I 
here  in  my  eyrie  can  look  across  into  the  hawk's  eyrie 
over  the  way,  and  see  there  the  two  baby  birds  on  the 
nest's  edge — defiantly  fearless  above  the  sheer  descent. 
So  narrow  is  the  gorge,  we  hear  their  young  cry  as 
clearly  as  does  the  mother-hawk  circling  just  above. 

Watch  her!  What  wonderful  sweep  of  mighty 
sinewed  wing  is  there!  What  marvellous  poise! 
Then,  a  tilt,  and  she  drops — cutting  the  crystal- clear 
air  with  a  grace  no  other  living  creature  may  ever  sur 
pass.  A  breath — and  she  rises.  Skimming  the  heights 
with  a  majesty  of  motion  defying  all  description,  she 
wheels  and  circles  over  the  gorge  on  a  level  with  your 
eyes — your  eyes  that  look,  and  look,  and  still  follow 
her  flight  when  she  mounts  higher — higher,  till  you 
have  to  lean  far  out  of  the  casement  to  see  into  the 
vivid  ocean-blue  of  the  heavens,  hidden  else  by  the 
overhanging  eaves.  A  speck — two!  Up  there,  they 
go  drifting  across  space.  And  you  come  back  to  the 
cliff  and  the  young  ones  in  the  nest.  My  small  neigh 
bors  over  the  way! 

Do  you  hear  them — hear  the  cry  of  their  hungry 
mouths?  Like  the  exaggerated  peeping  of  young 
chicks,  they  are  lifting  up  a  perpetual  plaint  for  food. 
"Peep — peep — peep!  .  .  .  Peep!"  If  they  perch 
on  the  nest  edge,  slowly  turning  around  in  a  pivotal 
way,  with  now  and  then  a  clumsy  lifting  and  limber 
ing  of  their  young  wings,  they  may  be  silent  for  a 


Hawks 


32 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Hawks 


while;  but  the  lull  is  only  temporary.  Again  you  will 
hear  the  vociferous  demand  for  meat-food  which  the 
small  beaks  are  so  eager  to  tear.  When  they  have 
turned  about  to  their  satisfaction  a  number  of  times, 
and  have  done  much  flapping  of  the  young  wings,  they 
re-commence  their  pitiful  plaint  of  "Peep!  peep!" 
Come,  mother-bird,  your  hawklings  are  calling  you! 
"Peep!  peep!" 

Now  lift  your  eyes,  friend,  again  to  the  infinite  blue 
space  where  she  found  such  grand  scope  for  her  flight. 
Gone!  The  far  specks  are  no  longer  there;  nothing 
is  moving  through  the  ether  between  you  and  that  per 
fect  sky. 

And  the  rock  walls?  Across  the  gorge  these  mighty 
cliffs  rise — cliffs  worthy  of  such  a  roofing.  And  flank 
ing  the  central  wall,  what  wonderful  cleft  domes  the 
rocks  are  fashioned  into!  What  slender  spires  reach 
heavenward  from  their  tops!  What  architecture  is 
there!  How  good — oh,  how  good  it  is  to  look  at! 
How  more  than  good  it  is  not  only  to  be  able  to  see, 
but  to  feel  the  beauty  of  it  all!  You  could  never  tire 
of  looking  at  this  cathedral-like  cliff  built  up  from  the 
very  earth's  foundations — this  noble  achievement  of 
the  Master  Architect!  Did  ever  stained  glass  window, 
set  within  the  temples  of  Man,  hold  more  gorgeous 
coloring  than  you  see  here,  where  the  blue  and  purple 
stains  of  the  rock,  just  there  at  the  right,  have  mixed 
with  emerald  patches  of  moss,  and  the  splotchings  of 
lichen-tufts  in  all  the  shades  of  yellow — of  velvety- 
black — of  grayish-white!  And  mingled  with  this  is 
the  red-brown  of  the  great  rock  itself.  Oh !  it  is  beau 
tiful — wondrous  beautiful,  wet  with  the  rain  that  fell 
early  this  morning,  and  which  the  sun  has  not  yet  dried 
— for  this  sheer  cliff  has  just  crawled  out  of  its  half 
day  of  shadow. 

Hark!    Above  the  shrill  cry  of  the  hawks,  you  hear 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


33 


the  anthem  sung  by  the  canon  winds,  mingled  with  the 
waters'  chanting.  You  hold  your  breath  as  you  listen, 
and  the  swelling  volume  of  sound  which  comes  up 
between  the  gorge-walls  stirs  you  with  deeper  feeling 
than  you  have  known  this  many  a  day.  Surely,  God's 
own  music  is  here. 

Down,  down — far  down  below  the  hawk's  nest — is 
the  creek,  rushing  noisily  over  boulders  hidden  by 
brush  and  willows.  And  now  a  vagrant  wave  of  wind 
paints  a  silvery  path  along  the  place  where  the  gray 
willows  grow!  How  lovely  that  was — that  shiver  of 
light  that  ran  along  on  the  yellow  leaves  and  tender 
branches ! 

Something  sweeps  past  the  cabin  window.  See! 
The  old  hawk  has  carried  a  mouse  over  to  her  young. 
Ah!  but  they  made  short  work  of  it;  and  are  now 
clamoring  louder  than  ever,  as  the  mother  again  goes 
forth  in  quest  of  yet  other  rodents  that  live  in  the 
rocks. 

Not  long,  and  a  day  will  come  when  (as  young  beaks 
and  talons  fasten  onto  some  dainty  bit  brought  them 
when  they  have  been  left  long  without  food  and  are 
ravenously  hungry)  she  will  not  yield  it  as  now;  but 
— keeping  her  own  clutch  on  it  the  while — she  will 
suddenly  dip  from  the  shelf  of  rock  and,  outspreading 
her  wings,  will  sail  away  over  the  chasm,  dragging  a 
youngster  out  of  the  nest  as  she  takes  flight.  Then — ! 

There  will  be  a  tumble  into  space;  a  clutching  at 
the  vanished  nest — at  the  bare  cliff — at  the  empty  air ! 
But  instantly  will  follow  the  instinctive  spreading  of 
young  wings.  The  mother-hawk,  in  alarm  and  appre 
hension,  will  shrill  a  new  note;  not  the  hawk-scream 
of  every  day,  but  a  sound  like  unto  a  seagull's  cry. 
The  canon  will  be  filled  with  the  noise  of  her  perturbed 
clamoring,  as — dipping  and  darting  under  her  young 
one — she  will  bear  its  weight  for  one  brief  instant,  to 


Hawks 


34 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Hawks 


give  the  assistance  and  assurance  of  safety  which  is 
needed  to  encourage  the  frightened  small  body,  that 
it  may  find  some  friendly  and  near  projection  of  rock. 
Not  only  her  mate  will  join  in  the  shrill  lamentations, 
but  alien  little  birds,  disturbed  by  the  unwonted  noise, 
will  add  their  cries  to  the  general  clamoring.  Such  a 
din  as  there  will  be!  And  all  the  while  will  be  the 
sweep  of  wide  wings  circling  close  about  a  frightened 
young  thing,  to  whom  the  big  world  is  unknown,  un 
tried  space. 

Then  the  other  wee  hawk  will  be  dragged  from  the 
nest  in  like  wise;  and  the  mother's  alarm-cry,  mingled 
with  the  chatterings  of  little  perturbed  birds,  will  be 
repeated.  Then  will  come  a  week  or  two  of  bewildered 
baby-bird  life — the  young  ones  protesting  against  the 
new  regime — a  week  or  two  of  crying  for  the  mother- 
care.  But  self-reliance  will  come  with  the  new  days, 
and  then  they  will  know  themselves  young  hawks. 
Babies  no  more. 

No  longer  fledglings,  you  will  have  to  fight  your 
world  for  a  living  then;  but  oh!  you  will  find  com 
pensation  in  just  the  joy  of  life !  No  longer  fed  by  the 
mother-beak,  you  will  have  to  go  far  a-search  for  food, 
little  ones,  when  that  time  comes,  lest  hunger  hunt  you 
down! 

But  is  it  not  worth  it,  to  go  all  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  while  you  follow  your  work-ways, 
just  for  the  sake  of  the  great  things  one  meets  the 
while?  Hawk-flight  and  hawk-life — oh,  you  will  know 
then  what  that  means !  The  storms  and  the  snow  that 
will  here  seek  you  out  in  the  rough  Winter  months  will 
be  well  worth  battling  with  when  they  call  forth  all 
your  powers  of  resistance.  Life  is  worth  while  when 
one  meets  the  things  which  tests  one's  fighting  ability 
— one's  capacity  to  overcome  difficulties! 

Not  long,  and  all  this  will  become  yours  to  be  and  to 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


35 


do.  But,  oh!  I  will  miss  my  hawk-babies  when  there 
is  an  empty  nest  over  the  way. 

You  are  here  today,  though,  little  ones;  and  above, 
is  the  mother,  watchful  for  your  well-being.  Circling 
and  circling,  she  hovers  over  that  jutting  bench  further 
down  the  canon;  yet  not  so  far  away  but  that  we  can 
see  the  turn  of  her  head  as  the  keen  eyes  are  bent  upon 
every  foot  of  ground  she  passes  over.  She  is  search 
ing  now  where  chaparral  is  growing  among  the  loose 
fragments  of  a  rock  slide,  below  the  palisades.  Cease 
your  clamoring,  you  noisy  wee  ones!  Never  fear  but 
that  those  penetrating  eyes  will  discover  what  you 
want,  and  she  will  fetch  you  other  rare  morsels,  if  you 
will  but  have  patience.  The  small  talons  are  grasping 
the  side  of  the  nest  (the  rough  nest  of  sticks  and  twigs 
which  I  watched  so  long,  in  the  past  weeks,  waiting  to 
see  the  first  fuzzy  head  rise  above  its  rim),  and  the 
shrill  cries  grow  louder. 

You,  friend,  like  myself,  have  grown  an  affectionate 
interest  in  the  little  fellows  in  the  hawk's  nest,  and 
you  laugh,  and  call  to  them— imitating  their  own  cry. 
A  wee  head  slowly  turns  toward  you — then  another; 
and  the  lamenting  ceases  for  a  moment,  while  the  four 
eyes  stare  toward  where  you  stand.  Verily,  we  are 
becoming  friends,  you  and  I,  with  our  little  neighbors 
over  the  way! 

And  so  the  day,  here  on  the  heights,  wears  on ;  and 
in  like  wise  it  is  repeated  in  other  days  which  are  good 
to  know.  Full  days. 

It  is  a  beautiful  world.    It  is  good  to  live. 

Days  there  are  of  cloudless  skies  of  sapphire-blue; 
other  days  clouds  of  white  wool  drift  overhead,  chas 
ing  the  shadows  that  run  over  the  rocks  underneath. 
Rock  swallows  dip  and  skim  over  the  great  cleft  in 
the  canon.  The  hawk's  cry  comes  down  from  the 
heights  and  the  linnet  lifts  its  lilt  from  below, 


Hawks 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Hawks 


"And  0!  and  O!  between  the  two, 
Go  the  wonderful  winds  of  God" — 
outsinging  the  songs  of  birds! 

Not  a  human  footstep  to  jar  its  perfection.  The 
place  is  all  one's  own.  The  din  of  the  working-day 
world  is  too  far  away  to  reach  one's  ears.  The  cry  of 
the  hawks  by  day;  the  owl's  hooting  in  the  darkness 
— that  is  all.  And  the  mingled  melody  of  chanting 
winds  and  waters!  They  are  always  here. 

And  always,  too,  is  the  picture  framed  by  the  un- 
painted  casing  of  pine  wood,  before  which  I  sit  so  very 
often— a  picture  that  lives!  Whether  it  be  seen 
beneath  the  sun,  or  by  the  stars'  light,  it  is  a  master 
piece,  and  one  to  take  to  your  heart  of  hearts— this, 
my  Picture  of  Hawks! 


SUBDUING  A  LITTLE  SAVAGE. 

TRANGEST  of  all  gifts  ever  bestowed 
upon  any  member  of  my  family  was  the 
little  seven-year-old  wild  Indian  which  a 
friend — an  army  officer — sent  to  my 
mother  when  I  was  a  child.  We  were 
living  in  an  isolated  canon  of  the  West. 
For  more  than  a  year  we  had  seen  no  white  woman; 
and  only  a  very  few  squaws  belonging  to  the  tribe  of 
friendly  Paiutes  living  about  us. 

If  you  depend  upon  people  for  your  pleasures,  a 
more  lonely  existence  than  such  as  ours  cannot  be 
imagined.  But  my  mother  was  a  woman  of  infinite 
resource  and  entertainment,  and  she  not  only  made  us 
see  a  duty  in  the  things  to  be  done,  but  to  find  a  pleas 
ure  in  the  doing,  as  well.  So  our  months  of  self-im 
posed  exile  went  by,  not  altogether  unhappily  for  any 
of  us,  and  for  one  small  girl  not  at  all.  Yet  the  nearest 
city  of  any  size  to  the  westward  was  far  off  in  the  Sac 
ramento  valley,  more  than  three  hundred  miles  away. 
Neither  toward  the  East  were  there  any  cities  nearer. 
Between,  lay  only  scattering  little  mining  camps.  Hos 
tile  Paiutes  were  committing  depredations  all  around 
us,  and  the  killing  of  the  whites  became  more  and  more 
frequent.  These  Paiutes,  together  with  the  still  more 
murderous  Shoshones  and  Bannocks  and  the  offshoots 


38 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


of  those  tribes,  caused  the  settlers  to  live  in  hourly 
dread  of  the  issue  of  each  morrow. 

The  Indians  that  year  had  been  unusually  trouble 
some — one  little  band  of  renegade  Bannocks  to  the 
Northeast,  in  particular,  had  especially  alarmed  the 
people.  A  detachment  of  troops  under  command  of 
Lieutenant  Hosmer  from  the  military  post  at  Dun  Glen 
started  out  with  the  avowed  intention  of  exterminating 
them.  They  were  but  a  small  band,  these  mongrel 
Bannocks,  at  most  but  two  or  three  score,  but  they  were 
notoriously  desperate,  as  well  as  keen  and  shrewd  in 
their  maneuvering.  It  was  therefore  deemed  best  to 
have  the  aid  of  some  of  the  friendly  Paiutes  in  effect 
ing  the  plan  of  action  as  laid  out  by  the  soldiers.  So 
Cap  Sue,  selecting  twenty  picked  men  of  his  tribe,  vol 
unteered  their  services,  and  one  midwinter  day  we  saw 
them  ride  out  of  our  canon  to  join  the  soldiers  and 
hunt  down  the  hostiles  in  canons  far  away. 

The  story  of  the  many  days  of  trailing  them  through 
the  snow,  and  how  they  had  all  but  given  up  the  quest 
when  Cap  Sue  pointed  out  the  blue  spiral  of  the 
enemy's  distant  campfire,  has  passed  into  history.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  tell  it  here,  or  how  they  fousfht  them 
to  the  death,  so  that  when  daybreak  came  there  was 
but  one  of  all  the  hostile  camp  that  lived.  It  is  only 
of  him — the  little  enemy,  the  one  small  boy  of  an  alien 
Deople — I  shall  have  ausrht  to  tell  now.  It  was  this 
little  fellow — brown  of  skin,  bright  of  eye;  with  un- 
Indian  features,  and  white  teeth  (such  beautiful  teeth 
as  he  had!)  yet  withal  terrified  and  trembling — who 
was  sent  by  the  Lieutenant  to  my  mother,  when  my 
father  was  returning,  several  weeks  later,  from  a  trip 
to  Dun  Glen. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  an  April  day  when 
we  saw  him  drive  up  the  one  long  street  of  the  deserted 
mining  camp,  where  the  tide  of  fortune  had  cast  us 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


ashore  with  the  rest  of  the  wreckage  left  there  when 
the  hopes  of  the  early  silver  miners  went  down. 
Though  we  had  not  been  of  them,  we  were,  at  that 
time,  with  them,  and  had  been  caught  in  the  mael 
strom. 

In  those  uncertain  days,  the  temporary  absence  of 
any  member  of  the  family  was  fraught  with  grave  fears 
of  danger  (a  messenger  coming  to  us  when  one  of  the 
household  was  away,  would  send  a  chill  to  the  heart 
until  we  were  assured  all  was  well),  and  a  safe  return 
was  the  cause  of  double  rejoicing  and  welcome;  but  my 
astonishment  at  the  sight  of  the  quaint-looking  little 
fellow,  who  had  climbed  down  from  the  wagon-seat 
and  now  stood  looking  at  us  in  timid  bewilderment, 
took  such  complete  possession  of  me  that  I  quite  forgot 
to  rush  into  my  father's  arms  with  my  usual  welcome. 

Such  a  little  fellow!  What  an  odd-looking  being  he 
was  that  day,  to  be  sure!  When,  in  answer  to  my 
mother's  puzzled  questioning,  I  heard  father  laugh 
ingly  tell  her  that  it  being  the  seventh  of  April,  he  had 
brought  the  boy  to  her  for  a  birthday  present,  it 
seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true  that  he  was  to  be 
"truly  ours  for  keeps."  I  experienced  such  a  succes 
sion  of  emotions  as  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  de 
scribe  ;  but  I  remember  that  the  first  thought  was  that, 
at  last,  I  was  to  have  a  real  playmate  like  other  chil 
dren.  Then  succeeded  the  fear  that — as  he  was  such  a 
very  dirty  little  boy — it  was  doubtful  if,  after  all,  my 
mother  would  let  me  play  with  him.  It  occurred  to 
me,  later,  that — as  he  was  wild,  really  a  wild  Indian 
— he  might  any  day  go  on  the  war-path  and  take  my 
scalp;  but  that  was  something  of  minor  importance. 
Children  live  in  the  present,  only ;  and  I  did  not  dwell 
on  what  might  be,  after  all,  only  a  remote  possibility. 
I  was  to  have  a  playmate!  A  real  live  playmate! 
Nothing  else  mattered. 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


40 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 
a  LfcUe 
Savage 


Therefore,  the  principal  thing  to  do  was  to  lend  my 
aid  in  getting  him  into  the  condition  of  cleanliness 
necessary  to  win  my  mother's  approval  of  an  Indian 
boy  as  a  playfellow;  and  such  a  siege  as  it  was  to  get 
him  into  that  particular  condition — poor,  dirty,  miser 
able  little  wretch  that  he  was!  The  soldiers,  having 
found  him  in  a  state  of  semi-nudity,  felt  they  had  made 
a  distinct  advance  in  dressing  him  when  they  put  him 
into  a  pair  of  old  soldier-trousers  cut  off  far  above  the 
knees  that  their  length  might  conform  the  better  to  his 
short  little  legs.  A  very  much  worn  blue  blouse,  whose 
sleeves  were  lopped  oif  far  above  the  elbows,  really 
did  duty  for  all  other  apparel,  and  made  quite  unnec 
essary  and  extravagant  the  wearing  of  trousers,  as  it 
reached  easily  to  the  floor,  even  dragging  a  little.  An 
old  fatigue  cap  completed  the  outfit.  I  smile  as  I 
write  this,  in  recollection  of  the  absurd  figure  he  cut; 
but  there  was  no  smile  on  my  face  then — nor  on  his 
own,  poor  little  survivor  of  a  wild  band ! 

He  stood  looking  from  one  to  another  with  watchful, 
frightened  eyes;  and  it  was  not  until  long  afterward, 
when  he  had  learned  our  tongue,  that  I  came  to  know 
how  the  small  stranger  had  thought  he  had  been  sent 
to  us  that  we  might  put  him  to  death.  The  White  Man 
had  killed  his  father  and  mother;  all  his  family;  all 
his  friends;  all  his  wild  clan.  How  was  he  to  know 
that  we  intended  him  no  harm? 

The  plate  of  food  put  down  for  him  at  that  first  meal 
he  received  from  our  hands,  was  partaken  of  at  first 
cautiously — suspiciously;  for  he  believed  we  wanted 
to  poison  him.  When  hunger  asserted  itself,  he  ate 
ravenously,  tearing  his  food  apart  with  tooth  and  nail 
like  some  wild  animal.  As  I  watched  my  possible 
playmate,  shocked  at  his  ignorance  of  good  table  man 
ners,  I  am  afraid  he  fell  many  degrees  in  my  estima 
tion.  After  he  had  eaten  his  fill— literally,  as  the 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


41 


Indian  does  eat — by  signs  and  motions  he  was  directed 
toward  the  pile  of  wood  just  beyond  the  back  door; 
there,  when  he  was  seated  on  a  big  juniper  log,  he  was 
shorn  of  the  thick  and  long  black  hair,  which  was  orna 
mented  with  buckskin  strings  strung  with  bits  of 
carved  bone.  Long,  long  afterward  he  told  me  how, 
when  he  saw  the  scissors,  and  the  axe  at  the  wood 
pile,  he  thought  he  was  to  be  killed  with  these  strange 
kind  of  knives  (as  he  deemed  the  scissors  to  be),  or 
struck  down  with  the  sharp  blade  of  the  axe.  He  had 
never  bathed  otherwise  than  in  the  Indian's  "sweat- 
house,"  and  when  a  tub  of  soapsuds  was  prepared  for 
a  cleansing  of  the  small  body  according  to  our  methods, 
he  saw  in  us  only  enemies  who  would  drown  him 
therein.  When  the  dirty,  discarded  clothing,  together 
with  the  matted  black  locks,  went  into  the  flames  of  a 
bonfire,  the  little  stoic  made  no  sign  of  what  he  be 
lieved  was  in  store  for  him — the  burning  alive  of  him 
self,  as  he  had  seen  his  people  burn  their  enemies — 
even  as  he  had  once  seen  his  father  burn  a  white  man. 
In  our  every  movement  he  saw  something  significant 
of  torture  or  death  being  prepared  for  him,  horrible 
things  that  were  only  being  delayed  in  their  execution, 
but  which  would  surely  come  in  time.  Yet  he  gave 
no  sign. 

After  he  had  been  barbered  and  bathed,  and  was 
ready  for  clean  clothing,  the  question  arose — where 
was  the  clothing  to  come  from?  There  were  no  stores 
within  many  hundreds  of  miles,  neither  was  there  a 
boy  anywhere  on  our  side  of  the  mountain.  Clothes 
he  must  have,  of  some  sort,  however,  and  at  once.  A 
search  was  made  among  our  own  rather  meagre  ward 
robes.  It  was  not  a  time  to  consider  his  sex  when  it 
came  to  dressing  him,  ar?d  it  would  have  been  a  prob 
lem  to  tell  whether  the  comical-looking  little  Indian 
was  boy  or  girl,  when  we  had  done.  How  we  laughed 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


42 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


at  the  figure  he  cut — laughing  the  louder  the  longer  we 
looked!  But  he  stood  there — an  unsmiling,  unemo 
tional,  unmoving  small  savage — with  hatred  in  his 
heart  of  which  we  had  no  thought.  Nor  did  the  hot 
fires  die  down  for  many  and  many  a  moon.  All  this, 
and  more,  we  did  not  come  to  know  until  years  had 
passed,  and  he  and  we  were  friends. 

The  soldiers,  when  he  was  leaving  the  fort,  had  given 
to  my  father  a  full  suit  of  the  soldier-blue  such  as  they, 
themselves,  wore.  These,  my  mother  reconstructed 
(after  I  had  "ripped  them  up  carefully,  and  picked 
all  the  stitches  out")  on  a  less  generous  plan,  fitting 
them  nicely  to  the  sturdy,  well-built  little  body.  They 
were  reserved  for  Sunday  use,  and  some  state  occasion ; 
and  when  he  donned  the  suit  with  its  shining  brass 
buttons,  he  felt  himself  every  inch  a  soldier,  and  car 
ried  himself  as  one.  The  children  of  the  friendly 
Paiutes  living  near,  could  get  no  recognition  from  him 
then.  It  was  only  when  dressed  in  the  suit  which  was 
made  for  every  day  use,  and  he  no  longer  represented 
the  great  American  army  (which  all  Indians — little 
and  big  alike — were  beginning  to  respect,  as  they  began 
to  realize  its  strength)  that  he  descended  from  his 
pedestal,  and  relaxing  from  military  dignity,  deigned 
to  notice  them.  Even  then,  it  was  but  a  haughty 
recognition  he  accorded  them.  He  would  rather  be  my 
slave  than  their  chief,  even  in  childish  plays;  and  this 
remained  so  to  the  end. 

When  he  came  to  us  he  knew  no  word  of  English,  and 
by  signs  only  could  we,  at  first,  communicate  with  him ; 
but  I  have  never  known  anyone  to  learn  a  language  so 
rapidly  as  he — with  an  intuition  that  was  little  short 
of  the  miraculous.  His  intelligence  was  that  of  any 
child  of  his  age  among  our  own  people.  What  he  was 
ignorant  of,  was  by  reason  of  his  past  environment,  not 
through  lack  of  a  fine  mental  endowment. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


43 


Each  day,  after  my  own  lessons  were  repeated  to  my 
mother,  I  took  the  teacher's  seat  and  taught  Frank. 
And  no  preceptor  was  ever  prouder  of  pupil  than  I, 
when  the  time  came  that  perfect  lessons,  signed 
"Frank  Bannock,"  were  handed  in  for  my  examina 
tion,  and  there  was  seldom  a  criticism  to  make.  Would 
there  were  more  Frank  Bannocks  in  the  world! 

Naturally  studious,  he  was  equally  eager  to  gain 
knowledge  and  apply  it  to  some  practical  use ;  seeming 
to  feel  it  would  be  unworthy  of  one  to  simply  acquire 
knowledge  and  hoard  it — that  it  was  its  application  to 
anything  worth  while  which  created  its  value.  And 
the  lessons  he  learned  caused  him  to  ask  questions  be 
yond  my  power  to  answer!  He  told  me  how  unsatis 
factory  to  him  were  the  Indian  theories  of  light  and 
darkness;  one  of  the  first  questions  he  asked  us  when 
he  could  express  himself  clearly  being:  "Where  dark 
go  when  light  come?"  He  wanted  to  know  what  were 
the  moon,  and  the  sun,  and  the  stars — what  caused 
seasons,  or  colors — of  what  was  beyond  the  mountains ; 
of  what  was  beyond  the  grave?  What  was  the  mystery 
of  life?  and  why  was  death  here?  Whence?  whither? 
why?  Indian  that  he  was,  and  even  Indian  child  that 
he  was,  he  asked  the  questions  we  all  come  to  ask 
sooner  or  later.  And  I — knowing  no  more  than  he — 
tried  to  teach  what  little  I  knew;  and  before  my  halt 
ing  explanations  would  be  made,  he  would  ever  grasp 
the  unuttered  thought  back  of  the  spoken  word;  and 
together  we  would  go  to  my  mother  to  straighten  for 
us  the  tangle.  When  we  got  beyond  our  depth  in 
theology,  she  would  give  us  leave  to  take  down  what 
we  would  from  the  book  shelves,  the  books  that  had 
many  engravings,  and  among  the  pictures  we  got  away 
from  problems  too  big  for  us.  "Shakespeare," 
"Byron's  Poems,"  "Godey's  Lady's  Book— 1850"!  I 
can  remember  now,  these  many  decades  later,  how  he 


Subduing 
a  Little 
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The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


loved  the  picture  of  Mazeppa  bound  to  the  back  of  the 
wild  stallion,  in  the  red  morocco  volume  of  Byron!  I 
wish  that  the  children  of  today  were  as  careful  in 
handling  books,  as  was  this  little  wild  Indian  of  the 
far-away,  little-known  mountains. 

And  of  those  mountains  where  he  was  born — where 
he  was  one  of  a  savage  tribe — where  no  white  man 
might  go,  and  live  to  return,  he  would  tell  me  stories 
of  his  people  and  their  ways,  that  was  the  strangest 
entertainment  a  small  girl-child  ever  listened  to!  He 
and  I  used  to  go  up  the  steep  side  of  the  canon,  above 
our  house,  where  we  could  watch  the  sun  go  down  on 
the  mountains  that  hid  his  one-time  home,  and  there  he 
would  relate  to  me  the  things  that  were  in  that  wild 
life  of  his,  far  away  across  the  river  and  the  purple 
range  of  mountains,  and  a  still  farther  range  to  the 
northwest.  No  tale  of  Grimm's  could  hold  such  com 
plete  fascination  for  a  child  as  did  the  terrible  recount- 
ings  of  massacres  along  the  old  emigrant  road,  and  the 
burning  of  wagons  by  the  way;  of  the  scalps  his  kins 
folk  brought  home  from  battles  where  the  soldiers  had 
been  driven  back;  of  raids  upon  small  settlements,  and 
killing  of  white  men  that  they  might  bring  back  horses, 
and  cattle — for  "jerky."  Strange  tales  for  a  child  to 
hear;  still  stranger  for  another  to  tell!  I  knew  they 
were  true;  but  they  never  seemed  real.  He  was  my 
playmate,  and  shared  all  my  games;  how  could  I  con 
nect  him  with  the  things  I  heard  from  his  lips?  No, 
the  tales  were  possessed  of  a  horrible  fascination,  and 
when  he  would  tell  such  things  to  me  (which  was  not 
often — he  would  rather  play — to  live  in  the  present — 
to  be  one  of  us)  the  interest  I  felt  was  not  born  of  con 
viction.  They  were  to  me  as  the  fairy-stories  of  genii 
and  dragon;  never  of  what  was  about  me — everywhere 
— through  those  years  of  my  childhood.  Could  I  have 
felt  the  truth,  I  would  have  better  understood  what  lay 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


45 


back  of  the  calm,  expressionless  little  face  the  day  he 
was  brought  to  our  home — when  he  expected  to  receive 
as  his  portion  what  his  people  had  meted  out  to  the 
invading  whites. 

The  wonder  is  that  he  ever  freed  himself  from  the 
terror  he  had  of  us  when  he  came.  It  was  weeks  before 
he  was  reassured;  months  before  he  began  to  evince 
any  confidence  in  us.  But  with  the  years  came  affec 
tion — an  affection  which  we  returned  in  like  measure. 
What  a  marvel  it  was ;  the  opening  of  the  doorway  of 
that  savage  mind !  The  opening  of  the  doorway  of  his 
lonely  little  heart!  I  understand  you  now,  Frank,  as 
I  did  not  then.  Dear  little  playmate  of  the  dead  and 
gone  years! 

When  he  was  not  telling  me  wonderful  tales,  he 
would  show  me  no  less  wonderful  things.  I  learned 
how  to  catch  rabbits  with  a  noose  on  the  end  of  a  green 
willow  sapling  set  in  the  ground — to  be  sprung  by  the 
rabbit  as  he  loped  down  the  rabbit-trails.  I  learned, 
as  the  Indian  children  learn,  to  twist  cords  out  of  veg 
etable  fiber.  He  showed  me  how  to  make  bone  and 
wooden  fish-hooks ;  and  how  to  set  them  in  a  row  along 
the  twisted  fish-line.  Then  I  learned  a  way  of  making 
a  spring  out  of  my  left  thumb  and  two  forefingers  so 
that  a  small  pebble  could  be  sent  spinning  out  of  sight. 

(The  other  evening,  when  some  of  us  had  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  highest  point  in  Los  Angeles  to  watch 
a  crimson  and  purple  sunset,  I  picked  up  some  pebbles, 
and  with  the  others  began  sending  them  as  far  as  I 
could  down  into  the  shadow-filled  canons.  Suddenly 
there  came  back  to  me  the  recollection  of  my  childhood 
days  up  on  the  lonely  mountain,  and  I  forgot  those  who 
were  with  me.  It  was  little  Frank  who  was  beside  me 
as  I  placed  the  pebble  against  the  lower  joint  of  my 
left  fore-finger,  and  with  my  right  finger  and  other 
thumb  sent  the  bit  of  stone  far  and  away,  out  of  sight. 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Stbduing 
a  LfcUe 
Savage 


I  had  not  forgotten  the  trick  learned  from  the  wild 
little  Bannock  years  and  years  ago.) 

He  taught  me  in  those  dim  years  how  to  string  a 
bow;  and  how  to  tip  an  arrow  with  flint  sharpened 
against  the  ball  of  the  thumb  with  another  stone ;  and 
how  to  turn  the  feather  right,  on  the  shaft  of  the  arrow. 

I  learned  more  of  the  signs  of  the  big  out-of-doors 
while  he  and  I  played  together  those  years  there,  than 
throughout  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  Woodcraft  and 
stonecraft  were  pleasant  studying,  and  every  day 
brought  some  new  knowledge.  It  has  served  me  good 
turns  in  the  time  since,  more  than  once. 

Most  wonderful  of  all,  he  could  rub  a  greasewood 
stick  so  fast  between  his  palms  that  the  point  of  it 
placed  in  a  hollow  of  a  bit  of  dry  wood,  with  a  pinch 
of  dry  (very,  very  dry)  dust,  would  presently  blaze 
into  a  little  flame  and  ignite  the  dry  shredded  bark 
put  there  to  catch  the  spark.  It  was  marvellous !  And 
what  was  more  marvellous  still  was  the  fact  that  he 
never  failed  to  make  it  burn ;  while  I  never  succeeded 
in  all  the  time  I  was  with  him,  no  matter  how  hard  I 
tried.  I  did  precisely  as  he  showed  me.  It  would 
smoke — oh!  so  encouragingly — but  to  blaze,  and  burn, 
it  refused  absolutely  and  always.  It  was  just  the  same 
with  the  "gorkies"  (the  Indian's  wild  onion)  that  he 
taught  me  to  find.  Whenever  I  dug  down  for  them 
the  root  and  stem  would  separate  an  inch  or  two  from 
the  surface  of  the  ground,  and  then  the  succulent  little 
bulb  would  be  lost.  Not  so  with  Frank.  He  never 
failed  to  get  them  out  without  severing  the  slender 
little  root.  Then,  with  the  splendid  generosity  which 
was  so  marked  a  characteristic  of  his  nature,  he  would 
pour  his  whole  store  of  "gorkies"  into  my  lap,  while 
he  would  dig  others  for  himself — or,  if  the  day  was 
late,  go  without.  It  was  his  will  always  to  give  me  the 
best  of  his  spoils  of  the  canon,  whether  it  was  of  ber- 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


47 


ries,  or  flowers,  nests  with  speckled  eggs,  or  bits  of 
bright  and  pretty  rock,  where  every  cliff  held  a 
"ledge."  What  halcyon  days  those  were! 

Looking  back  to  that  time,  it  now  seems  to  me  that 
he  was  frequently  less  playmate  than  slave.  Slave  to 
my  imperious  whims;  but  it  was  a  self-imposed  bond 
age.  I  fancy  at  times  I  must  have  made  of  him  a 
veritable  little  beast  of  burden.  All  the  tasks  I  dis 
liked  to  perform  he  would  willingly  undertake,  in  the 
household  duties  which  my  mother  had  assigned  to 
each  of  us  impartially.  In  my  childish  games  and 
plays  he  submitted  to  my  dictatorial  management  with 
a  willingness  of  which  I  always  took  full  advantage.  I 
ordered;  he  obeyed.  Whether  it  was  to  drag  me  about 
all  day  on  a  sled,  or  to  haul  many  hundreds  of  heavy 
rocks  to  build  a  stone  wall  around  my  playhouse  (and 
which — not  finding  to  my  liking — I  had  him  tear  down, 
and  take  away),  or  to  dam  the  creek  to  fish  for  min 
nows,  it  was  always  the  same — I  was  the  ruler,  he  the 
slave. 

How  unselfish  he  was !  I  have  a  memory  of  the  day 
when,  in  gathering  great  branches  of  sweetbrier  along 
the  creek's  edge,  as  I  slashed  at  the  thorny  shoots  with 
a  sharp  knife  brought  from  the  house,  my  eyes  on  the 
pink  blossoms,  I  did  not  see  the  little  brown  hand 
reaching  out  to  help  me,  and  the  blade  struck  the  end 
of  his  finger — taking  away  the  tip  and  a  portion  of  the 
fingernail.  Frightened  at  what  I  had  done,  the  knife 
fell  into  the  stream,  and  I  burst  into  tears.  When  my 
mother  came — attracted  by  my  frantic  wails  of  grief 
— she  found  Frank  trying  to  dry  my  tears  and  comfort 
ing  me  by  saying:  " Don't  cry — please  don't  cry!  It 
don't  matter;  it — it  don't  hurt  me  a  bit.  Don't  cry 
any  more.  I  'm  sorry ! "  He  was ;  was  sorry  for  me — 
and  with  no  thought  for  himself.  He  had  no  thought 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


48 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 

a  Little 
Savage 


of  his  own  pain  while  he  beheld  my  remorse.     Unsel 
fish  little  Frank! 

How  his  gaze  followed  mother  as  she  moved  about 
the  room  where  he  lay  sick — so  very,  very  sick — with 
typhoid  fever!  She  had  nursed  him  through  weary 
weeks  of  an  illness  that  wasted  his  small  body  to  but 
little  more  than  a  skeleton ;  but  he  lived,  and  her  nurs 
ing  it  was  that  saved  him.  This  he  knew  without  the 
telling;  and  in  those  days  after  the  delirium  had 
passed  he  would  watch  her  with  the  look  of  devotion 
one  sometimes  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog. 

So,  it  came  to  pass  that  we  were  unprepared  for  the 
change  in  him  that  time  wrought.  In  justice  to  him  I 
must  say  that  he  did  not  alter  until  there  were  changed 
conditions  in  the  country.  The  first  transcontinental 
railway  came  through  the  valley  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  and  it  brought  white  people  in  great  num 
bers;  and  these  he  came  to  know — the  bad  with  the 
good.  And  somehow  the  bad  influenced  him  most. 
The  inherent  traits  of  a  savage  race  had  not  been  so 
easily  eradicated,  after  all.  Idleness  and  slovenly  ways 
took  the  place  of  the  former  ways  of  neatness  and 
industry.  The  eager  desire  for  knowledge  gave  place 
to  sullen...  indifference.  He  had  been  gentle  and 
courteous  when  alone  with  us ;  now — led  by  those  who 
set  an  unfortunate  example — he  was  cruel  and  insolent. 
The  glib  lie  took  the  place  of  absolute  truth ;  and  where 
there  had  been  honesty  of  purpose  and  action,  now  was 
deceit  and  artifice.  He  would  go  away;  and  return 
ing,  beg  forgiveness,  and  that  he  might  begin  again 
with  us  as  before.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  By-and-by 
he  went,  and  did  not  come  home  again — ever.  He  dis 
appeared  as  completely  as  though  he  had  gone  out  of 
the  world;  and  all  our  inquiries  of  white  people  and 
Indians  alike,  through  the  years  which  followed,  never 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


brought  us  any  knowledge  of  him.  Finally  we  gave 
him  up  for  dead;  and — as  we  do  of  the  dead — we  for 
gave  him  much  that  he  had  done. 

Almost  thirty  years  afterward — after  he  had  gone 
out  of  our  home  and  our  lives — on  a  blue-and-gold  day 
during  one  Summer  that  I  spent  in  the  arid  country 
long  after  I  had  gone  away  to  live  where  white  people 
were,  I  was  riding  with  an  Indian  woman  along  the 
ridge  between  two  canons,  where  we  could  look  down 
into  one  and  see  the  fallen  walls  of  buildings  which  had 
been,  for  a  time,  my  childhood's  home.  For  a  long 
time  I  sat  on  my  horse,  looking  down  at  the  silent  and 
broken  adobes,  as  memories  came  trooping  back. 

Then  I  said:  "Come!"  and  we  rode  down  into  the 
deserted  and  dead  mining  camp  of  the  forgotten  years. 
We  loosened  the  cinchas,  and  took  off  the  bridles  that 
the  horses  might  rest,  too;  and  on  a  moss-bank  where 
wild  violets  grew  we  sat  down  in  the  golden  sunlight, 
under  that  wonderful  sapphire  sky.  The  creek — that 
was  fed  all  the  year  by  the  melting  snows  up — up — up 
at  the  peaks  above — sang,  and  laughed,  and  danced  its 
way  to  the  dry  sands  of  the  valley.  And  birds  that 
builded  here  sang  too.  Yet,  somehow,  I  heard  only 
minor  notes  in  all  the  song! 

Back,  and  back  went  memory  to  those  days  when,  a 
child,  I  played  through  the  sun  or  the  snow  with  my 
little  Indian  playfellow. 

The  Indian  by  me  was  as  silent  as  the  gray  adobes; 
for  they  are  a  people  who  respect  your  silence  when 
you  would  be  still.  So  she,  too,  was  silent  as  I;  and, 
like  me,  perhaps,  was  living  in  days  now  dead.  Once 
again  I  was  a  small  girl  in  gingham  apron  and  stout 
shoes,  building  stone  forts  at  the  creek-edge,  from 
which  we  rode  forth  to  kill  off  whole  tribes  of  hostile 
Indians.  Then  (but  this  as  a  concession  to  him  and 
his  race,  and  for  which  I  expected  him  to  be  properly 


Subduing 
a  Little 
Savage 


so 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Subduing 
a  LitUe 
Savage 


grateful)  we  would  be  the  wild  Indians,  and  the 
porphyry  walls  of  the  canon  would  resound  to  our  war 
cries,  as  we  fell  upon  an  emigrant  train  going  to  Cali 
fornia.  (What  a  little  savage  I  was!)  Then,  when 
the  lure  of  the  chase  was  upon  us,  we  would  shoot  the 
antelope,  and  deer,  and  mountain-sheep  which  our 
imagination  created  out  of  the  white  sage  on  the  hill 
side,  and  drag  our  game  to  the  campoodie  of  our  family. 
(And  I  remembered  how  I  had  used  a  hair-ribbon  for 
this  purpose,  and  vainly  tried  to  restore  its  ruined 
lustre  afterward,  lest  it  invoke  maternal  reprimand!) 

Right  there  it  was,  in  the  rocks,  that  I  lost  my  first 
penknife,  and  never  found  it.  Such  a  beautiful  knife 
it  was — pearl-handled,  and  with  four  blades  that  would 
cut  anything!  Mr.  Clark  from  the  river  had  given  it 
to  me,  saying  I  must  not  lose  it;  and  then — I  lost  it, 
and  neither  Frank  nor  I  could  ever  find  it.  Strange, 
how  long  one  remembers ! 

And  there  is  the  place  where  he  and  I  buried  my 
kitten — under  the  wild  rose,  where  the  brookmint 
grows  still.  Or,  he  buried  it;  and  I  stayed  home  and 
mourned  and  mourned,  and  would  not  be  comforted. 
Why  does  one  remember  such  foolish  things  for  three 
times  ten  years? 

So  the  afternoon  wore  on,  and  in  dreams  and  memo 
ries  I  lived  again  where  I  had  lived  in  the  days  of 
gingham  aprons  and  stout  shoes.  The  stream  and  the 
bird  sang  on,  while  I  thought  of  my  childhood's  strange 
setting,  and  the  strange  playmate  of  those  years. 

By  and  by  I  came  back  to  the  present,  and  to  the 
Paiute  woman  beside  me  I  told  the  story  of  the  little 
boy  of  an  alien  tribe — of  his  baby  days  as  I  had  heard 
of  them  from  him ;  of  his  boyhood  days  as  I  had  known 
them  to  be.  Of  his  youth — his  manhood,  I  knew  noth 
ing;  he  had  come,  and  been  of  us,  and  gone.  That 
was  all  I  knew.  When  I  had  done,  I  said: 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


51 


"I  think  Frank  is  dead." 

In  Indian-way  she  sat  still — looking  down  at  the 
broad  levels  of  the  valley  below  us.  After  we  had 
seen  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  lie  against  the  walls 
of  the  canon  back  of  the  adobes,  she  rose,  and  put  the 
bridle  on  her  horse,  and  tightened  the  cincha  for  the 
ride  forward  into  the  warm  glow  of  the  dying  sun 
light.  When  I,  too,  had  re-set  my  saddle,  and  mounted, 
we  came  away  from  the  old  ruined  mining  camp  and 
its  haunting  shadows  of  the  past.  Out  on  the  mesa, 
loping  slowly  down,  I  was  thinking  of  other  things 
when  the  Indian  woman  spoke. 

"I  know  that  Frank.    He  no  dead." 

"Not  dead!    You  know  him?" 

She  was  of  another  tribe ;  I  could  not  credit  it,  for  no 
Paiute  had  ever  told  us  aught  of  him. 

"Maybe  some  other  Frank;  are  you  sure?" 

She  nodded.  "He  live  close  up  by  that  place  call  Jm 
Austin.  Plenty  times  I  see  him.  Every  time  he  ask 
'bout  all  you.  He  work  plenty  for  white  people.  He 
good  man.  Everybody  like  'm.  He  never  git  married. 
He  never  go  back  to  Bannock  country.  He  stay  here 
all  time — 'bout  one  hun'ed  miles  up  there.  He  never 
forget  'bout  you  family;  he  heap  like  'm  all  yon." 

So  he  was  living,  and  lived  near  that  part  of  the 
country  in  which  we  had  been  much  through  the  long 
years ;  and  yet  never  a  sign  had  he  made  that  we  might 
know  of  him!  Yet  he  had  not  forgotten  us,  else  he 
never  would  have  asked  of  us  whenever  he  met  those 
Paiutes  whom  he  knew.  She  said  he  "liked  us— heap 
liked  us."  And  she  would  not  have  said  it,  had  it  not 
been  true.  But  he  had  never  once  in  all  the  thirty 
years  given  one  sign! 

It  is  the  way  of  the  Indian. 


Subduing 
a  LfcUe 
Savage 


THE  WONDER  OF  SUI  SEEN  FAH. 


Y  HORSE  shied  as  the  lightning  flashed  in 
our  faces.  There  was  a  heavy  crash  of 
pealing  thunder,  and  before  the  last 
reverberation  had  died  away  the  big 
rain-drops  began  to  come  down  on  my 
riding-habit,  while  I  urged  him  to  still 
faster  pace  on  the  steep  and  rugged  trail  leading  down 
the  canon. 

A  great  rush  of  wind  swept  up  through  the  gorge, 
bringing  with  it  the  slap  of  driving  sleet.  Nowhere 
was  the  footing  safe  beyond  a  fast  walk ;  and  my  horse 
was  already  doing  his  best  in  making  as  rapid  a  de 
scent  as  possible  down  the  slipping,  sliding  rocks  which 
were  brightening  their  tints  in  the  fast  falling  rain. 
Tall,  dry  grasses,  and  the  brushwood  on  the  banks  of 
the  creek,  bent  and  swayed  with  the  winds  sweeping 
through  the  deep-cleft  canon.  Birds  with  tip-tilted 
wings  were  buffeted  hither  and  thither  by  the  strength 
of  the  storm,  as  they  fought  their  way  to  shelter. 

It  was  one  of  those  sudden  storms  which  one  may 
encounter  up  on  the  heights  of  a  mountain  ragged  with 
shattered  rocks,  and  cut  into  cliff  and  gorge;  storms 
that  may  not  last  over  an  hour,  at  most,  but  which — 
while  they  do  last — rage  with  a  fury  that  makes  them 
something  not  to  be  braved.  So  I  looked  anxiously 


"There  stood  a  cabin  under  the  lee  of  the  sheer  wall."— Page  53 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


53 


about  me  for  some  cover  under  which  I  might  hide,  and 
an  overhanging  wall  where  my  horse  could  find  shelter 
from  the  brunt  of  the  beating  rain-sheets. 

Lowering  my  head  to  the  storm,  and  looking  out 
eagerly  from  beneath  the  brim  of  my  hat,  I  saw  noth 
ing — absolutely  nothing — offering  the  protection  I  so 
desired.  I  had  about  resigned  myself  to  what  seemed 
to  be  the  inevitable,  when  a  sudden  turn  in  the  canon's 
winding  trail  disclosed  to  me  the  roof  of  a  habitable 
building.  Made  of  the  jagged,  unevenly  broken  rocks 
that  littered  the  mountain's  western  slope,  the  chinks 
cemented  with  a  rough  plastering  of  mud,  there  stood 
a  cabin  under  the  lee  of  the  sheer  wall  which  rose  from 
almost  the  very  edge  of  the  trail. 

Riding  quickly  up  to  the  cabin,  I  slipped  from  my 
saddle  to  the  ground.  As  I  did  so,  the  rude  door 
swung  open,  disclosing  a  little,  lean,  yellow-skinned  son 
of  the  Orient,  who  seemed  rather  startled  by  my  unex 
pected  appearance.  • 

'"May  I  come  in,  John,"  I  asked,  "until  it  stops 
raining?" 

"Certainly.  You  go  inside.  I  tie  your  horse,"  was 
the  reply,  in  better  English  than  one  usually  hears 
from  Chinamen. 

While  he  was  securing  my  poor,  dripping,  shivering 
beast,  and  fastening  a  rice  mat  over  the  saddle  in  an 
effort  to  protect  it  from  further  dampness,  I  entered 
the  one-room  dwelling,  and  found  there  two  other 
coolies  sitting  before  a  stove  radiating  a  generous 
warmth. 

Both  nodded  pleasantly  as  they  looked  up,  and  one 
of  them  offered  me  a  three-legged  stool,  asking  me  in 
broken  English  to  be  seated.  This  I  declined,  prefer 
ring  to  stand  by  the  fire  until  I  had  dried  my  water 
soaked  clothing. 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fob 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


My  eyes  roved  over  the  strangely  assorted  objects 
filling  the  low-ceiled  room.  A  typical  "China  camp" 
of  the  West!  Dozens  of  domestic  utensils  were  lying 
about,  ingeniously  contrived  from  what  must  have  been 
a  meagre  supply  of  manufacturing  material.  Surely 
the  little  yellow  man  has  a  wonderful  ingenuity!  A 
collection — vast,  varied,  and  chaotic — of  ill-looking 
bags  and  boxes  were  stuffed  with  articles  whose  uses 
were,  mainly,  unguessed  by  me.  Odds  and  ends  of 
clothing,  American-made  and  of  Chinese  make,  were 
tossed  about.  Foul-smelling  fish,  dried,  and  surely 
from  China,  hung  from  the  rafters.  Boxes  of  tea,  mats 
of  rice,  vegetables  smelling  of  earth  and  decay,  to 
gether  with  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  a  placer  camp, 
littered  the  mud  floor.  Bunks  built  against  the  stone 
walls  of  the  room  were  strewn  with  blankets  and  quilts 
which  had — strange  to  say — the  appearance  of  cleanli 
ness;  while  curled  upon  one  of  the  beds  was  a  cross- 
looking  dog  that  eyed  me  evilly,  without,  however, 
raising  his  head.  Chinese  bowls  and  cups,  with  gro 
tesque  figures  in  gray  and  blue,  were  scattered  about 
on  the  table.  Like  the  beds  they  bespoke  cleanliness. 
Standing  on  the  table  was  an  earthen  jar  of  Chinese 
brandy  and  a  pot  of  preserved  ginger.  An  opium 
"kit"  was  in  full  view;  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  mingled  odors  of  opium,  tobacco,  dried  fish,  stove- 
smoke,  and  the  heavy  tuberose-like  fragrance  which 
exhaled  from  a  great  bowl  of  exquisitely  beautiful 
Chinese  lilies  set  upon  a  small  shelf  near  the  one  win 
dow  of  the  squalid  room. 

White  as  snow  is  white,  with  a  center  all  yellow  as 
gold;  sweet  as  orange  flowers,  and  altogether  lovely, 
they  seemed  strangely  out  of  place  in  the  dingy,  dusky 
stone  cabin  under  the  cliffs.  It  was  as  though  a 
feather  from  some  passing  angel's  wing  had  fluttered 
down  to  fall  in  the  mud  and  mire  of  a  sty. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


55 


My  eyes  went  burrowing  among  the  strange,  shad 
owed  corners  of  this  habitation  of  creatures  who 
seemed  to  me  scarcely  human.  There  was  something 
wonderfully  interesting  in  studying  their  environment. 

With  what  squalor  were  they  surrounded!  And 
what  barrenness  of  perceptions  was  theirs!  They 
lived  a  life  wholly  limited  to  victuals  and  drink,  sleep 
and  rude  shelter,  totally  devoid  of  Nature's  poetry,  or 
the  beautiful  in  the  world  that  is  lent  us  by  Art— the 
things  that  glorify  even  the  meanest  surroundings. 

"Poor,  ignorant,  starved  wretches!"  I  said  to  my 
self.  "Life  has  never  in  the  remotest  degree — even 
once — touched  their  days  with  the  finger  of  graceful 
thought,  nor  has  the  Creator  given  them  the  faculty 
of  wandering  through  lands  of  delightful  fancy.  Hard 
realities,  unredeemed  by  a  single  quality  of  poetic 
imagery  (such  as,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  we  are 
ever  adorning  our  daily  lives  with),  make  the  sum  total 
of  their  degraded  existence.  Animals  all — miserable, 
soulless  animals."  I  declared,  "And  yet  we  call  them 
human  beings!"  And  I  sighed  impatiently. 

One  of  the  little  yellow  men  had  been  busying  him 
self  about  the  stove,  and  now  proffered  me  a  bowl  of 
steaming,  fragrant  tea;  for  who  can  brew  the  bowl 
equal  to  a  Chinaman? 

"I  makee  you  some  tea,"  he  said,  pleasantly.  "You 
dlink  it,  you  no  catchee  cold,  I  thlink.  You  gettee 
plitty  wet  now ;  maybe  you  no  dlink,  you  catchee  sick. 
More  better  you  dlink.  You  savvy?" 

I  "  savvy ed,"  and  smiling  an  acceptance,  drank  the 
delicious  beverage. 

The  third  Chinaman  nodded  and  smiled  at  me  in  the 
most  friendly  way ;  but  evidently  he  spoke  no  English. 
The  first  one  I  had  met  now  re-entered  the  cabin,  and 
a  moment  later  engaged  himself  in  adding  fresh  water 
to  the  bowl  holding  the  lily  bulbs  that  were  bedded  in 


The 

Wonder  of 
SuiSeen 
Fob 


56 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


bits  of  sugar-white  quartz  rock.  I  noted  how  his  slim, 
brown,  tapering  fingers  touched  with  tender  care — and 
almost  lovingly — the  tall  shoots  loaded  with  their  clus 
ters  of  sweet,  white  flowers.  It  was  the  month  in 
which  the  greatest  celebration  of  their  year  occurred, 
"Chinese  New  Year,"  and  I  knew  that  the  blossoming 
of  the  lily,  as  it  might  be  prolific  or  blighted  in  bloom, 
augured  well  or  ill  for  the  luck  of  the  ensuing  year  to 
its  owner.  I  commented  upon  the  perfection  and  pro 
fusion  of  its  blossoms,  in  acknowledgement  of  the 
pretty  superstition.  He  looked  up  with  a  quick,  appre 
ciative  smile. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have  very  much  good  luck  this  year. 
I  guess  I  find  plenty  gold  in  the  creek  (I  got  placer 
claims  here  in  Black  Canon),  so  that  I  get  very  rich 
and  can  go  back  to  China  and  give  my  mother  nice 
things.  I  be  very  glad,  then. " 

He  called  my  attention  to  a  half-tone  portrait  of  Li 
Hung  Chang,  evidently  torn  from  the  pages  of  some 
magazine,  and  which  was  now  tacked  to  the  wall  above 
the  lilies,  and  near  the  shrine-like  shelf  where  a  great 
number  of  burning  punks  and  gaudy  red  paper  slips 
gave  evidence  of  an  unashamed  devotion  to  the  reli 
gious  observances  of  a  people  who  shame  our  own  in 
their  infrequent  prayers. 

As  I  stepped  nearer  the  picture  to  look  closer  at  the 
peculiar  face,  so  unlike  anyone  of  my  own  race,  I  saw 
that  part  of  the  text  of  the  article  for  which  the  print 
had  been  used  as  an  illustration,  was  there;  and  my 
eyes  caught  the  line:  "Li  has  always  been  something 
of  a  mystic,  a  dreamer,  a  poet."  (My  lip  curled  deri 
sively.  A  Chinaman!  One  of  the  same  race  as  these 
little  oblique-eyed  men  here?  I  smiled  disdainfully.) 
"Dr.  Bedloe  thus  translates  one  of  his  stanzas;"  I 
read, 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


57 


"Dragon,  who  rul'st  the  shoreless  sea  of  death, 

When  I  lie  dreaming  on  my  loved  one's  lip. 

And  thou  dost  come  to  steal  away  her  breath, 

0,  take  me  with  her  on  thy  phantom  ship ! ' ' 

I  stared.  It  was  indeed  poetry!  Could  it  be  possi 
ble  that  such  a  gem  had  fallen  from  the  pen — a  pointed 
brush  rolled  in  India  ink,  and  held  by  the  long-nailed 
fingers  of— a  Chinaman?  Had  the  four  lines  really 
found  birth  in  the  brain  of  a  tip-eyed,  be-queued, 
shaven-headed  Celestial? — even  the  great  Li — for  a 
great  statesman  I  must  needs  admit  his  being.  But  a 
poet — he,  a  Chinaman!  Why,  the  sentiment — the 
music  of  the  quatrain  were  something  any  man,  white- 
skinned  or  yellow,  might  be  proud  to  father.  I  was 
confounded — amazed!  Ah,  but  then  (I  said  to  myself) 
his  was  an  exceptional  mind !  He  was  not  to  be  classed 
with  ordinary  coolies.  His  public  life  had  shown  of 
what  unusual  material  the  great  dictator  was  made.  I 
granted  that — foreign  as  the  idea  had  been  to  my  mind 
before — he  might  possess  the  grace  of  poetic  thought. 
He  was  a  great  statesman — therefore  he  might  be,  also, 
a  great  poet.  But  these  men  here  in  the  mountain 
cabin — half  dug-out,  half  hovel — they  were  of  his  race, 
but  not  of  his  kind;  they  were  mere  opium-smoking 
animals. 

"You  like  that?"  A  voice  broke  in  upon  my  mus 
ing.  The  little  Mongolian  was  watching  me  with  inter 
est.  ' '  I  can  read  some  English, ' '  he  said,  ' '  And  I  think 
that  very  good  kind  reading. "  He  pointed  to  the  verse. 
"But,  not  so  good  in  English  as  in  China."  His  lips 
moved  as  he  whispered  the  Chinese  words  softly  to  him 
self.  "Sound  very  pretty  read  that  kind  in  China 
book." 

I  was  mute.  The  little  man,  after  all,  could  appre 
ciate  that  which  the  great  man  had  written ;  and  I  had 
but  just  said  in  my  ignorance  that  these  coolies  did  not 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


58 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 

Fah 


know  the  charm  of  the  beautiful!  I  turned  away  to 
the  window,  shamed  into  silence,  and  watched  the  drip, 
drip,  drip  of  the  rain  from  the  casing  outside  where  it 
ran  in  trickling  streams  against  the  glass. 

Heaven  was  shedding  a  flood  of  tears  in  ceaseless 
weeping;  weeping  as  though  never,  since  the  birth  of 
time,  had  it  known  aught  to  grieve  over  until  now,  and 
was  giving  way  to  sorrow  with  the  abandon  of  some 
young  heart  hitherto  untouched  by  woe;  wailing  and 
weeping  as  if  to  wash  the  wicked  old  earth  free  from 
all  its  sins,  and  make  it  once  more  pure  and  clean  as 
when  it  came  fresh  from  the  hand  of  its  creator. 

A  cheap  nickel  clock,  hanging  against  the  wall, 
noisily  ticked  away  the  moments.  Five  minutes — ten 
— a  quarter  of  an  hour!  Rain — rain — rain;  and  no 
promise  of  cessation.  I  came  back  and  seated  myself 
near  the  lilies  of  China,  lifting  my  face  to  inhale  their 
fragrance.  How  lovely  they  were!  A  cup  of  ivory 
with  a  heart  of  gold. 


And  then — ?  Then — !  How  it  came  about — how 
the  story  began,  I  do  not  know,  nor  how  long  it  took 
for  the  telling;  but,  sitting  there  in  that  squalid  cabin 
of  Chinese  miners,  I  heard  for  the  first  time  the  Legend 
of  the  Chinese  Lily. 

I  do  not  know  if  he  meant  to  relate  the  story  to  me, 
or  if  he  was  simply  repeating  to  himself  the  lovely 
legend,  as  one  repeats  over  and  over  that  which  is 
pleasant  to  the  ear ;  nor  do  I  remember  the  exact  words 
he  used  in  the  telling  of  the  tale.  I  only  know  that 
there — circled  by  strange  surroundings,  with  the  storm 
raging  through  the  canon  and  beating  its  water-wings 
against  the  window-pane — it  fell  to  my  lot,  that  after 
noon  on  the  heights  of  a  great  Western  mountain,  to 
listen  to  a  fanciful  story  out  of  fairyland,  and  which 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


held  me  fascinated,  and  forgetful  of  all  else  in  the 
world  as  I  heard. 

And  this  was  the  story: 

Long  ago — so  long  that  the  world,  and  all  in  it,  was 
new;  even  as  all  now  is  old,  very  old — there  dwelt  in 
that  oldest  of  all  lands,  China,  a  man  great,  and  good, 
and  with  money  and  possessions  too  plentiful  to  be 
counted.  And  he  had  wives — two,  three,  or  four,  as  a 
rich  man  may.  But  only  the  children  of  the  first  two 
wives  have  to  do  with  this  story.  Each  wife  bore  a 
son.  And  the  first-born — he  that  was  the  son  of  the 
first  wife — was  the  father's  favorite.  But  the  second 
son  it  was  who  loved  the  father  best.  This  the  sire  did 
not  know,  for  the  boy  hid  his  great  love;  yet  ever 
obeying  to  the  most  minute  particular  each  request 
asked  of  him.  For  goodness,  and  honor,  and  duty,  and 
truth,  for  loyalty,  and  for  love  this  son  was  one  man 
among  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand.  But  the 
father  went  about  with  an  invisible  fold  of  cloth,  bound 
across  his  eyes  by  an  evil  spirit,  which  blinded  him  to 
this  noble  son's  worthiness.  And  the  evil  spirit  re 
moved  the  bandage  whenever  the  father  looked  on  the 
elder  son,  and  put,  instead,  before  his  eyes  a  magic 
glass  which  made  that  son's  vices  seem  as  virtues,  and 
his  treachery  as  loyalty,  and  his  lies  as  truth,  and  his 
deceitful  bearing  as  love.  So  the  father  was  ever  de 
ceived,  and  lived  out  the  measure  of  long  life  believing 
that  good  was  evil,  and  that  that  which  was  evil  was 
good. 

Then  when  the  measure  of  his  days  was  done,  he 
died;  and  the  people  mourned.  For  he  had  been  well 
beloved  for  his  many  virtues,  and  honored  for  his 
greatness  and  his  riches. 

Now,  when  his  father  died  the  elder  son  fell  to 
lamenting;  and  he  lamented  loudly  and  long  the  first 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fob 


day,  and  lamented  less  loud  the  second  day,  and  the 
third  day  lamented  not  at  all.  For  his  heart  was  bad ; 
and  in  secret  he  rejoiced  that  his  sire  was  dead,  for 
now  all  these  great  possessions  would  be  his  own. 
Money,  and  hills  where  the  tea  plants  grew,  and  houses 
in  the  village,  and  rice  swamps,  and  riches  of  many 
kinds — much  of  all — were  his  own.  All  that  his  father 
had  left  was  his.  All  but  one  small  bit  of  waste  land 
far  up  on  the  side  of  a  great  mountain.  A  barren  tract 
up  there  in  a  hollow  of  the  heights  was  deemed  of  no 
worth;  for  it  had  never  grown  tea-tree,  nor  rice,  nor 
grass,  nor  flower,  nor  weed.  So  this  was  the  father's 
bequest  to  the  younger  son.  For  the  law  was  that  to 
every  son  a  man  had,  must  be  given  a  portion — little 
or  great — of  his  lands  when  he  died;  and  to  this  son, 
to  whom  he  wished  to  leave  nothing,  he  could  give  no 
less. 

To  the  elder  and  favorite  went  all  else;  but  to  the 
younger,  who  was  worthier  than  any  other  child  of 
China,  was  given  but  this  tract  covered  with  fine  bits 
of  broken  rock,  where  no  green  thing  had  ever  grown, 
and  where  the  ground  was  dry  and  forbidding. 

Yet  against  the  unjust  division  this  noble  son  re 
belled  not;  but  only  mourned  the  father  that  was  dead. 
Mourned  sincerely — mourned  without  ceasing,  and 
without  comfort — that  the  beloved  and  honorable  being 
was  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  his  gaze. 

Of  the  injustice  done  him — of  the  smallness  of  his 
portion  of  the  inheritance — he  thought  little.  His 
father  was  dead;  his  father  whom  he  had  so  loved — 
whom  he  still  loved  beyond  all  expression — was  gone 
from  him.  Nothing  else  mattered. 

And  days  went  by.  The  elder  one  went  abroad 
among  his  newly  acquired  possessions,  saying:  "This 
is  mine,  now ;  and  this ;  and  this,  also. ' '  And,  because 


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61 


he  was  what  he  was,  he  forgot  the  dead  man  whose  gift 
all  these  things  had  been. 

But  his  brother,  whose  heart  was  heavy  with  grief, 
and  who  counted  not  the  value  of  his  portion,  nor  the 
lack,  only  longed  to  see  his  father's  face  once  more. 

Then  the  new  moon  came  and  looked  down  upon 
them  both — the  evil  son,  and  the  son  who  was  good. 
And  the  moon  grew  to  the  full — lessened — and  waxed 
old.  And  in  the  old  of  the  moon  the  younger  son  jour 
neyed  to  the  mountain  where  his  poor  inheritance  lay; 
to  the  miserable  and  barren  land  which  was  awaiting 
him. 

His  eyes  looked  with  sadness  upon  it ;  not  because  of 
its  barrenness,  but  that  it  was  the  last  gift  his  father 
had  bestowed  upon  him. 

His  heart  swelled  with  sorrow;  and  tears  which 
scorched  and  stung,  flowed  down  his  cheeks  as  he  flung 
himself  on  the  ground  in  his  grief.  He  lay  there  long, 
so  long  a  time  he  had  lost  all  count  of  the  hours,  mourn 
ing  as  only  they  can  mourn  who  are  true  of  heart. 

It  was  a  great  night,  full  of  stars.  A  night  when  they 
burn  like  fire  in  the  Heavens.  A  band— filmy  and  far 
— stretched  across  the  arc  like  the  ragged  white  smoke 
in  the  wake  of  a  fast  speeding  steamer.  Meteors  shot 
through  the  infinite  blue-black  depth,  and  the  vastness 
of  space  could  be  felt,  like  the  presence  of  a  thing  alive, 
in  the  vitalized  atmosphere. 

Though  he  did  not  raise  his  head,  he  was  aware  that 
something  most  strange  had  happened.  Though  hear 
ing  no  sound,  yet  he  felt  near  him  a  presence. 

Then  a  voice  spoke  to  him  from  out  the  Heavens ;  and 
its  vibrations  fell  upon  his  ear  like  the  multitudinous 
cadence  of  birds  in  song. 

"Why  weep  you?"  the  voice  asked,  and  he  replied: 

"Because  I  loved  my  father,  and  he  is  dead." 

"Though  he  is  gone  hence,  he  loves  you  in  measure 


The 

Wonder  of 
SuiSeen 
Fah 


62 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


now  as  you  have  ever  loved  him,"  he  heard  the  voice 
say;  and  it  sounded  like  the  ringing  of  silver  bells. 
And  now  his  heart  bounded  within  him  with  a  great 
thrill  of  joy  that  a  father's  love  was  at  last  his.  Yet 
it  was  in  fear  and  trembling  that  he  asked,  f alteringly : 

"Even  as  he  loved  my  brother?" 

"Even  as  he  loved  your  brother  once;  but  he  loves 
not  your  brother,  now,"  the  voice  of  music  answered 
him.  "The  evil  bandage  across  his  eyes  has  been  re 
moved,  and  the  magic  glass  is  broken.  He  now  sees 
into  his  children's  hearts  with  the  penetrating  eye 
which  belongs  to  the  dead,  and  he  knows  the  truth  at 
last.  Weep  no  more;  your  father  sees  you — touches 
you — loves  you.  And  because  of  your  faithfulness  and 
loyalty  through  all  trials,  your  reward  shall  be  great. 
Here,  where  only  sterility  has  been,  shall  henceforth 
be  bountiful  yield.  Never  again  will  the  earth  here  be 
dry  and  barren ;  for  your  tears  have  wetted  the  ground 
so  that  for  a  thousand  times  a  thousand  years  a  gener 
ous  moisture  shall  keep  the  plant-roots  healthily  grow 
ing.  The  prayers  you  have  breathed  here  for  the  dead 
shall  ward  off  all  evil  from  the  living — from  you  and 
the  family  that  will  be  yours.  The  warmth  of  your 
true  heart,  as  it  has  lain  beating  and  breaking  here  on 
the  earth,  shall  call  forth  blossoms  of  unearthly  beauty. 

"Dig  into  the  soil,  O,  most  dutiful  of  dutiful  sons, 
and  tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  find." 

And  in  the  starlight  the  young  man  began  scraping 
with  his  fingers;  and  digging,  he  found  an  unknown 
bulb. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  voice. 

"A  strange,  new  kind  of  root,"  he  answered;  "I  do 
not  know  its  name, ' '  and  he  covered  it  over  again  with 
the  earth  and  bits  of  broken  rock.  Then  once  more  the 
voice  of  sweet  music  spoke: 

"Out  of  the  land  from  whence  your  father  looks 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


63 


down  on  you  here  these  roots  came,  sent  by  him  in  his 
remorseful  love ;  and  the  flower  which  grows  from  the 
root  and  stalk  is  called  the  Flower  of  Filial  Affection. 
Go,  and  come  again  the  third  day  at  noon ! ' ' 

Then  the  young  man  went  away.  And  when,  at 
noontide  of  the  second  day,  he  came  again,  he  was 
amazed,  for  green  shoots  had  sprung  up  from  among 
the  stones  that  were  now  wetted  with  water  which 
oozed  from  the  ground. 

The  voice  he  had  heard  before,  spoke  at  his  elbow. 

"What  see  you?" 

And  he  answered:  "I  see  the  earth  rich  with  plant- 
life  where  it  was  barren  before." 

"Even  as  your  father  now  sees  the  living  evergreen 
truth  of  your  soul,  where  once  his  blinded  eyes  saw  but 
barrenness !  Mourn  no  more ;  go,  now,  and  come  again 
tomorrow,  which  will  be  the  third  day,  at  early  morn 
ing  light  when  the  sun  first  shines  here  on  the  moun 
tain." 

At  early  morning  of  the  third  day  he  came,  as  he  was 
bidden ;  and  lo !  the  air  was  weighted  heavy  with  deli 
cious  perfume.  It  seemed  to  drop  down  from  the 
Heavens  and  fall,  fold  upon  fold,  on  the  earth  in  inex 
pressible,  ineffable  sweetness. 

All  about  him  green  plants  were  in  bloom.  From 
the  root  came  the  plant,  and  the  plant  bore  a  beautiful 
flower.  From  filial  love,  rooted  deep  in  the  heart  of  a 
man,  springs  all  that  is  noble  and  good;  and  the  re 
ward  of  virtues  in  a  good  son  shall  be  made  manifest. 
The  whole  earth  seemed  to  be  covered  over  with  blos 
soms  of  waxen  purity — wax-white  blossoms  were  about 
him  where  he  stood,  like  the  flowers  of  Heaven  that  we 
dream  we  see  under  the  full  moon.  All  the  world 
seemed  snowed  under  by  petals  of  fragrance;  and  as 
he  gazed  in  awe  at  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  scene, 
he  shook  with  the  intensity  of  his  emotions.  Moved 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fob 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Wonder  of 

SuiSeen 
Fob 


to  helpless  weakness  by  the  spirituality  of  what  he  saw, 
he  fell  upon  his  knees  in  worship  of  the  great  Power 
that  had  caused  such  exquisite  loveliness  to  grow,  and 
bowed  his  forehead  on  the  ground. 

Then,  out  of  the  Heavenly  surroundings,  spoke  the 
voice. 

"My  son,"  it  said,  tenderly,  and  oh!  so  sweetly;  and 
now  he  recognized  the  loved  accents,  for  it  was  his 
father's  voice  that  was  speaking — that  had  been  speak 
ing  since  the  hour  he  had  first  come  to  mourn  on  the 
mountain — "Oh,  my  son — son  beloved — once  a  burden 
you  bore,  bore  it  with  uncomplaining  lips.  Life  has 
set  no  greater  task  for  a  child  than  to  be  loyal  and 
loving  in  the  face  of  injustice  and  misunderstanding. 
So,  for  this,  your  reward  shall  be  great.  Because  of 
your  heart's  loving  loyalty  these  flowers  shall  hence 
forth  be  made  sacred  to  your  race,  and  shall  grow  only 
upon  this  land  of  yours,  and  in  that  way  be  only  for 
your  family.  Nowhere  else — East  or  West,  North  or 
South — shall  they  ever  be  made  to  grow  in  the  earth  to 
the  perfection  of  blossoming;  yet  here  on  this  tear- 
bedewed  land  shall  they  forever  thrive,  on  this  spot 
made  sacred  by  your  faithfulness.  Yours,  shall  they 
be  only;  yours,  and  your  sons',  and  your  sons'  sons, 
through  all  coming  generations. 

"The  bulbs  shall  grow  for  you  and  yours  to  sell — 
for  others  to  buy ;  and  riches  past  all  counting  shall  be 
yours.  Greater  riches  will  be  yours  than  can  ever 
come  to  him  who  is  your  brother.  And  now  I  go. 
Even  as  I  love  you  I  bless  you;  going  hence  to  await 
you  in  that  land  from  whence  these  white  blossoms 
came.  Farewell,  beloved  child;  most  honorable  son, 
farewell!" 

And  the  one  who  was  prostrate  on  the  ground  raised 
himself  and — though  he  had  seen  nothing — knew  that 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


65 


the  presence  had  gone,  and  that  he  was  alone, 
his  heart  was  comfort  and  everlasting  peace. 


But  in 


This  was  the  tale  brought  out  of  legend-land  by  the 
Chinaman  for  my  charmed  ear  to  hear. 

And  this,  and  the  poetic  gem  of  the  great  minister — 
both  alike,  refuted  my  earlier  conceptions  of  the  race. 

I  could  say  nothing.  It  was  a  time  for  silence ;  but 
I  think  he  understood,  and  knew  how  the  beauty  of  the 
legend  had  entered  my  heart.  For  some  time  it  was 
very  still  in  the  dusky  little  dug-out,  then  the  older 
Chinaman  spoke. 

"Chinaboy,  he  no  b'lieve  him  stoly  tlue.  Jus'  plitty 
stoly;  tha's  all.  That  pla'  in  China  country  where 
flow'  glow  b'long  all  time  jus'  one  fam'ly — more  one 
hun'ed  year  b'long  one  same  fam'ly.  Chinaboy,  he 
say  same  fam'ly  like  talk  'bout  stoly;  'cause  flow' 
nebber  glow  aly  pla'  else." 

Only  a  legend.  Only  a  story  made  by  the  fairies  for 
children  and  these  simple  minded  folk,  who  saw  its 
poetic  charm  as  did  I.  Only  a  tale  brought  out  of 
lily -land  for  those  to  hear  who  have  the  poet-hearts  of 
little  children. 

I  was  still  under  the  glamour  of  the  beautiful  legend, 
when  looking  window-ward  I  saw  that  the  storm  had 
long  abated.  A  shaft  of  yellow  sunlight  pierced  the 
window-pane,  and  fell  upon  the  lilies.  I  saw  a  speck 
of  gold  gleaming  in  the  bright  light,  from  one  of  the 
broken  bits  of  pure  white  quartz.  I  touched  it  lightly 
with  my  finger,  looking  questioningly  at  the  story  -teller 
of  the  canon. 

He  glanced  at  the  one  who  spoke  no  English,  smiling 
as  he  did  so ;  the  other  said  something  in  Chinese.  To 
me  the  younger  man  said: 

"My  cousin  have  few  gold  specimens  that  man  gave 


The 

Wonder  of 
Sui  Seen 
Fah 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 
Wonder  of 

SuiSeen 
Fah 


him  from  quartz  claim  up  in  the  canon,  and  that  been 
very  rich — show  much  free  gold  in  every  piece.  He 
want  put  all  that  rich  kind  in  dish  here,  'cause  he  say 
he  think  that  flower  lonesome  in  this  country  and  want 
to  go  to  China  again.  So  he  give  best  kind  rocks  he 
can  get  for  this  flower  to  grow  in,  and  then  the  flower 
maybe  glad,  'cause  it  know  Chinaboy  do  best  he  can 
for  it." 

Did  I  once  say  these  people  had  no  poetic  feeling? 
Never  again  would  I  think  so. 

My  eyes,  too,  had  been  blinded  with  the  bandage  of 
an  evil  spirit ;  but  the  gentle  spirit  out  of  lily  land  had 
torn  it  away,  and  I  saw  in  the  hearts  of  those  little  peo 
ple  a  fineness  of  feeling  which  vied  with  the  delicacy 
of  the  gold-hearted  snowy  blossoms  growing  in  the 
bowl  filled  full  of  snow-white  stones,  each  bearing  a 
golden  star. 

As  I  rode  away  from  the  little,  low  cabin  at  the  edge 
of  the  mountain-trail,  I  was  thinking  that,  after  all, 
there  is  a  quality  in  all  peoples  which  answers  to  our 
poetic  thought — even  in  the  blue-bloused,  bequeued 
yellow  men — though  I  had  been  sceptical  before. 

Down  through  the  canon  I  went;  riding  over  grow 
ing,  young  grass  glistening  with  wet,  and  through 
brush  which  was  dripping  diamonds.  Away  below  me, 
in  the  valley,  a  twin  rainbow — big  and  beautiful- 
arched  over  the  flats  and  meadows,  across  which  my 
road  ran  straight  to  the  hills  beyond. 


ONE  DAY  AT  PACHECO'S. 

HE  air  was  drowsy  with  afternoon 
warmth,  and  the  hills  of  the  Coast 
Range,  showing  but  blurred  outlines 
through  the  violet  haze,  melted  into  the 
misty  skyline.  The  sky  itself  was  dap 
pled  with  fine  white  clouds.  To  the 
West,  where  the  harbor  usually  glistened  and  glittered 
under  the  yellow  California  sun  shining  out  of  a  cobalt 
sky,  today  there  was  but  a  great  sheet  of  water  un 
ruffled  by  any  breeze.  It  might  rain  tomorrow — it 
probably  would;  and  the  wind  would  come  tearing  in 
through  the  Golden  Gate,  churning  the  bay  into  foam 
and  washing  away  the  soft  pastels  of  the  hills.  But 
today  it  was  a  world  of  dreams.  That  is,  if  you  were 
a  dreamer.  Here,  at  the  water's  edge  it  was  bustle 
and  stir.  Of  dreams,  or  of  rainy  days  to  come,  no  one 
thought — or  cared.  It  was  the  day  of  a  great  race. 

The  steam  cars,  the  trolleys,  machines,  everything 
on  wheels,  poured  their  thousands  into  the  race-track 
enclosure,  to  see  the  pick  of  California  horseflesh  run. 
Nothing  else  mattered. 

There  were  two  who  might  have  been  taken  for 
father  and  son,  who  were  seated  by  themselves;  the 
younger  full  of  excitement,  and  trying  to  interest  the 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


older  man  in  what  most  interested  himself — the  beauty 
and  breeding  of  the  three-year-olds,  famous  the  world 
over. 

The  young  man  was  twenty-two,  and  looked  thirty. 
The  other  had  passed  three  score  and  ten,  and  looked 
thirty  years  younger.  He  had  seen  life ;  he  had  loved 
life;  it  had  kept  him  young.  This  is  true  of  most 
Forty-niners. 

"You  think,  because  I  don't  grow  enthusiastic  over 
this  horserace  today,  that  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
enjoy  seeing  a  good  horse  run,  and  a  good  rider  keep 
his  seat?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  seen  riding  and 
running  which  stirred  a  man's  blood  so  that  this  sort 
of  thing  wasn't  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  day  with  it. 

"You  men  of  another  generation  miss  what  we  old 
fellows  remember. 

"While  we  are  waiting  for  the  start,  let  me  tell  you 
of  a  day — one  day  at  Pacheco's. 

"The  Major  and  I  had  been  over  to  Antioch,  and  on 
our  return  accepted  the  old  Don's  invitation  to  turn 
aside  at  his  rancho,  and  witness  the  sport  of  a  Cali 
fornia  Spanish  gala  day.  Casa  Pacheco  was  one  of 
those  big,  delightful  old  houses  of  the  early  Califor- 
nians,  standing  on  rising  ground  in  the  center  of  the 
Don's  domain,  where  fine  live  oaks  dotted  the  rancho 
as  far  as  eye  could  see.  But  no  house  of  old  Spaniard, 
or  newer  gringo,  was  ever  big  enough  to  accommodate 
the  crowd  we  found  there  that  day  in  July.  Men  and 
women  were  there  thick  as  bees  swarming  about  the 
place  in  the  honey -sweet  air.  Tall,  handsome  ca- 
balleros,  and  pretty,  plump  senoritas,  ninos  laughing  for 
joy,  and  healthy  as  only  those  children  can  be  who 
breathe  the  salt  air  that  comes  in  from  Pacific  seas; 
old  men  and  women  with  the  fire  of  life  still  shining  in 
their  bead-bright  eyes,  though  their  skin  was  withered 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


and  flesh  was  shrunken;  young  men  and  girls,  laugh 
ing  and  gay,  and  in  love.  These,  and  the  Indians — 
scores  upon  scores  of  them — and  the  horses  (such  as 
you  never  see  now  on  the  ranchos),  these,  I  say,  made 
up  a  mass  of  moving,  glowing  life  that  day  at 
Pacheco's. 

"In  the  corral  were  two  or  three  hundred  head  of 
wild  cattle;  steers,  stags,  and  old  bulls.  Hot — un 
tamed — restless — they  surged  back  and  forth  in  their 
narrow  confine,  while  a  perpetual  cloud  of  light  dust 
hung  over  them  in  the  heat  of  the  Summer  sun. 

"There  was  movement,  excitement,  life  everywhere! 
The  attitude  of  your  race-track  habitues  here  today 
would  be  called  apathetic  in  comparison  with  what 
those  flesh  and  blood  beings — the  old  Spaniards — 
showed,  and  felt.  Ah,  my  boy,  you  missed  a  great  deal 
not  being  born  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century  earlier ! 
And  I,  too,  would  have  missed  it  all,  had  I  not  sailed  in 
through  the  Golden  Gate  before  the  close  of  the  'Fifties. 

"Well;  the  crowd  at  Pacheco's  had  flocked  in  at  his 
bidding  from  the  country  for  leagues  and  leagues 
around.  From  Ciprian's,  and  Moraga's,  and  Briones', 
and  from  San  Ramon,  and  Alamo,  and  Castro  Valley. 
From  Livermore  they  came,  and  Romero  Valley,  too; 
and  Martinez.  From  everywhere  that  day  the  people 
poured  in  to  Pacheco's. 

"Every  vaquero  rode  a  good  horse.  Why,  men  like 
Jose  Moraga  and  Martinez  wouldn't  have  taken  a 
double  handful  of  gold  slugs  for  any  one  of  their  saddle 
horses,  and  they  numbered  them  by  the  hundreds! 
You  never  saw  such  horses,  my  boy,  as  we  used  to  have 
in  California — in  the  old  days,  in  the  golden  'Fifties. 
Great,  big,  fine  animals;  every  one  of  them  a  picture. 
Made  of  muscle  and  bone,  and — more  than  all — mettle. 
That  was  the  kind  of  a  horse  a  man  rode  in  the  days 
when  to  be  a  Spaniard  was  to  be  a  first-class  vaquero. 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


70 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


There  were  no  "cowboys"  then;  the  word  hadn't  been 
invented.  Why,  sir,  the  horses  you  fellows  use  now 
would  fall  down  under  the  weight  of  the  old  Spanish 
saddles — the  kind  we  used  to  have  in  the  'Fifties. 
They  were  embroidered  with  silver  and  gold  threads; 
made  heavy  with  such  embroidery,  and  worked  with 
silks  in  beautiful  colors.  The  tapaderos  almost  touch 
ing  the  ground;  and  the  saddles  made  with  great 
machillas  that  half  covered  a  horse.  All  heavily 
mounted  with  silver.  Conchas  on  the  spurs  that  were 
big  as  saucers;  and  silver  chains  jangling  from  the  bit, 
to  make  silvery  music. 

"In  those  days  a  horse  seemed  to  possess  more  intel 
ligence  than  your  horses  of  the  present  day  do;  and 
when  he  got  fitted  out  with  the  fixings  the  old  Spaniards 
used  to  put  on,  why,  by  George,  sir,  he  carried  himself 
like  those  who  are  of  the  blood  royal! 

"Everyone  used  to  ride  in  the  old  days,  just  as  no 
one  rides  now.  What's  that?  You?  You  ride? 
Nonsense!  What  do  you  know  about  riding,  when  the 
most  you  ever  do  is  to  throw  your  leg  over  some  pretty, 
prancing  saddler  for  a  short  canter  out  through  the 
park  and  the  Presidio,  or  along  the  beach  in  the  sun 
shine  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  Get  on  a  horse — on  a 
horse,  sir — and  ride  in  a  storm,  or  at  night,  as  we  old 
chaps  used  to  do,  time  and  again,  fifty  years  aero,  and 
you'll  wake  up  to  the  delights  of  some  new  sensations. 

"I  can  remember  riding  at  night  with  the  wind 
shrieking  in  my  ears,  and  the  slap  of  sleet  in  mv  face 
as  I  rode  neck  and  neck  with  the  storm.  Forked 
lightning  flashing  in  my  eyes,  and  a  flying  road  under 
my  feet;  fording  a  river,  finding  my  way  in  the  dark 
through  a  canon,  climbing  a  hill,  then  descending  into 
a  gully — on,  and  on,  in  the  nip-ht!  Riding,  riding,  rid 
ing!  Wet  to  the  skin,  but  asflow  with  excitement  and 
the  electric  current  that  made  myself  and  my  horse  a 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


71 


part  of  the  storm  and  the  elements !     Ah,  but  it  makes 
a  man  young  again  only  to  think  of  it! 

"But  you  fellows  who  go  for  a  gallop  over  asphalt 
roads  on  days  when  it  is  sunny  and  pleasant,  and  then 
trot  leisurely  home  again  to  tell  what  you  know  about 
riding,  you Bah,  what  do  you  know! 

"Eh?  Oh,  about  that  day  at  Pacheco's?  Why, 
that's  what  I'm  telling  you  about.  The  young  Span 
iards  there,  who  were  to  ride  (and  there  must  have 
been  a  full  three  score  of  them),  had  their  horses 
trimmed  up  so,  that  it  was  worth  a  day's  journey  just  to 
look  at  them  where  they  were  standing,  to  say  nothing 
of  what  it  was  when  they  were  responding  to  the  touch 
of  hand  and  heel.  That  was  one  of  the  finest  sights 
a  man  could  ever  imagine,  and  one  such  as  you  never 
have  seen. 

"The  riders  who  were  to  take  part  in  the  contest, 
where  each  would  try  to  excel  in  the  display  of  fine 
horsemanship,  sat  in  their  saddles  forming  two  lines 
on  either  side  of  the  opening  of  the  corral.  Lean,  lithe 
fellows  they  were,  wearing  their  picturesque  clothes  as 
only  a  Spaniard  can  wear  them.  Girt  'round  the  waist 
with  silk  sashes;  most  of  them  a  vivid  crimson,  but 
some  wearing  blue  ones.  And  every  face  was  shaded 
by  the  stiff,  broad-rimmed  sombrero  worn  with  a  chin- 
strap,  and  tilted  down  on  the  forehead. 

"The  horses  pawed  at  the  ground,  tossing  their 
heads  and  rolling  their  bits  under  their  tongues.  Quiv 
ering  with  excitement,  and  twitching  their  sleek  skins 
in  nervous  expectancy,  they  were  as  eager  to  be  off  as 
were  their  masters. 

"Then  the  bars  were  let  down.  The  corral  itself 
was  built  like  most  of  the  old-time  corrals — stockade- 
fashion,  out  of  stout  limbs  cut  from  the  live  oaks,  and 
set  deep  in  the  ground ;  and  lashed  together  with  raw 
hide  thongs.  There  was  no  gate  to  swing  easily  on 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


72 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


oiled  hinges,  but  big  bars  were  lifted  in  place  after  the 
cattle  were  corraled,  and  lashed  tight  and  fast  with 
the  rawhides.  It  took  time  to  open  or  shut  the  corral, 
but  what  matter?  The  people  of  the  Pacific  had  time 
— plenty  of  it — in  the  old  days ;  with  Indians  in  plenty 
to  do  their  bidding. 


"The  bars  down,  an  old  steer  (big,  broad-horned,  his 
eyes  red  and  ugly,  and  his  mouth  slavering),  comes  to 
the  opening  of  the  corral.  He  stops.  Motionless  he 
stands,  eying  the  multitude  outside  for  a  minute.  His 
hoofs  paw  at  the  ground,  and  he  moves  a  few  feet  for 
ward,  shaking  his  head  and  lashing  his  tail.  Again 
he  stops,  and  putting  his  nose  down,  smells  of  the  un 
certain  ground;  smells  and  snorts,  afraid  to  pass 
through. 

"  'Vaya!  Vaya!'  The  shouts  startle  him  into  ac 
tion.  'Vaya!  vaya!'  There  is  a  quick  rush  forward, 
and  he  is  out  in  the  open.  It  is  a  dash  for  liberty; 
and  he  makes  straight  away  for  the  bottom-land,  down 
where  the  oaks  are  the  thickest. 

' '  Then  there  is  a  shout  from  the  people — and  another 
— and  another;  and  out  of  the  crowd  of  waiting 
vaqueros,  two  (one  from  each  side  of  the  line),  clap 
spurs  into  the  flanks  of  their  horses,  and  are  off,  after 
the  steer  which  is  running  with  head  up  and  tail  stiff 
ened,  at  a  pace  which  only  a  good  horse  can  equal. 

"But,  look!  One  of  the  men  is  gaining  on  him! 
More  and  more — closer  and  closer — almost  up  to  him 
— only  a  length  behind — now  half  a  length — ah!  he  is 
closing  the  gap — he  is  there,  now;  running  with  the 
steer,  close  side  by  side.  Then — 

"There  is  a  quick  movement  of  his  arm  as  he  bends 
low  from  the  saddle,  and  (just  how  it  is  done,  you  can 
not  see)  he  has  caught  the  animal  by  the  tail,  and 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


73 


taken  a  turn  with  it  around  the  horn  of  the  saddle. 
Spurring  his  horse,  which  leaps  forward  at  the  touch, 
he  whirls  the  steer's  hind-quarters  around  as  horse  and 
rider  rush  past,  and — releasing  his  hold  at  the  precise 
instant — the  animal  is  tripped  and  thrown  to  the 
ground,  where  it  rolls  over  and  over  from  the  force  of 
the  impact. 

"A  burst  of  cheers  sounds  from  the  hilltop;  wild 
hurrahs  for  the  victor. 

' '  But  the  steer  has  bounded  to  his  feet,  and  is  up  and 
off  again.  Away  go  the  pursuers  after  it.  They  have 
forgotten  the  danger;  their  blood  is  stirred  by  the 
daring.  If — at  the  moment  of  releasing  the  turns 
which  have  been  taken — the  long,  strong  hair  should 
catch  on  the  horn,  and  hold,  horse  and  rider  would  be 
hurled  to  the  earth  with  the  steer.  But  this  fellow 
acts  quickly;  and  he  is  as  cautious  as  he  is  quick, 
though  in  his  picturesque  grace  he  seems  never  to 
hurry.  The  supple  figure  leans  from  the  saddle ;  there 
is  a  dextrous  turn  of  the  wrist,  and  the  steer  is  down 
once  more.  This  time  thrown  by  the  other  vaquero. 
Again  the  air  is  filled  with  loud  cheering.  The  Major 
and  I  are  cheering,  too! 

' '  Cuidado !  Look  out,  there !  The  steer  is  up  again ; 
maddened,  and  eager  to  fight;  ready  to  make  a  quick 
rush  and  gore  man  or  beast  that  may  stand  in  his  way. 
But,  suddenly  turning,  he  is  off  and  away,  and  they 
after  him;  and  again  he  is  thrown.  He  is  getting 
bewildered  and  exhausted  from  the  repeated  quick 
falls.  Sometimes  he  starts  up  the  hillside,  instead  of 
on  down  to  the  bottoms.  He  is  dizzy  and  dazed,  scarce 
knowing  which  way  to  go.  Tired  and  panting,  and 
with  tongue  lolling  while  the  glistening  slaver  parches 
under  his  hot  breath,  he  has  no  strength  left  to  run. 

' '  So — at  last — they  let  him  trot  slowly  off,  while  they 


One  Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


74 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


One 'Day 

at 

Pacheco's 


slowly  turn  back  to  rest  themselves  and  their  horses, 
and  then — later — to  follow  a  fresh  one. 

' '  But  ere  the  bridle  reins  are  drawn  across  the  necks 
of  the  blowing,  sweating  horses,  another  wild  yell  goes 
up  to  the  heavens;  and  another  steer  passes  out  of  the 
gap  in  the  corral,  followed  by  two  fresh  riders.  The 
two  coming  up  from  the  bottomland — swing  out — one 
to  the  right,  to  the  left,  the  other — to  give  a  free  sweep 
to  those  who  are  charging  like  a  whirlwind  after  the 
steer  which  is  running  straight  to  the  lowlands. 

"The  bars  are  let  down,  and  steer  after  steer  is 
turned  out — steers,  stags,  and  old  toros.  And  each  is 
made  to  run  a  hard  race  for  the  freedom  which  is  his 
when  once  he  reaches  the  oak  trees. 

"There  is  shouting,  and  cheering,  and  laughing;  and 
the  vaqueros  race  down,  and  ride  back,  and  rest  as  they 
sit  in  the  shade  and  eat  watermelons.  Those  who  fail 
in  the  throwing  are  good-naturedly  derided  and  jeered 
at  by  those  who  rest  under  the  trees,  and  smoke,  and 
laugh,  and  are  happy — these  children  of  a  Summer- 
land. 

"Shouts,  and  laughter,  and  song;  and  the  simple 
joys  of  a  happy  people!  Losing  or  winning,  the  hours 
are  golden  ones  that  day  in  the  blue  and  gold  of  a  Cali 
fornia  July.  That  was  back  in  the  'Fifties! 

"And  the  winners?  They  found  their  reward  in 
dark  eyes ;  in  soft,  melting  glances  which  bore  to  each 
victor  a  promise.  As  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  met,  a  mes 
sage  sped — ere  the  long  lashes  fell  on  cheeks  that 
blushed  red  with  the  red  blood  of  youth — and  a  promise 
was  given;  for  each  knight  had  his  ladye.  All  day 
— all  day  long  in  the  warm  Summer  sunshine — 

"Eh?  What's  that  you're  saying?  'It's  a  go! 
They're  off!'  Have  they  started?  Bless  my  soul!  so 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


75 


they  have.  There  they  go!  A  good  start!  'Gad!  but 
it's  a  fine  sight  to  see  a  good  rider  on  a  good  mount; 
and  the  finest  sight  in  the  world  is  to  see  them  on  a 
dead  run! 

"How  I  wish,  my  dear  boy,  you  could  have  seen  them 
—that  day  at  Pacheco's." 


One  Day 
at 

Pacheco's 


UNDER  THE  CAMPANERIO. 


ID  you  ever  know  the  little  old  graveyard 
under  the  eaves  of  the  Mission  Dolores? 
Travel  a  full  day's  journey  away  from 
the  city  that  lies  by  the  beautiful  bay 
whichsoever  way  you  would,  yet  nowhere 
could  you  find  another  spot  more  full  of 
peaceful  calm  and  inviting  beauty  than  God's  acre 
under  the  shadow  of  the  old  gray  church.  It  was  a 
place  for  rest,  and  solitude,  and  dreams.  No  sadness 
was  there ;  only  the  silence  that  charms — the  quiet  that 
soothes.  Although  it  lay  almost  within  the  heart  of 
the  big  city  of  busy,  bustling  life,  comparatively  few 
ever  came  to  stand  before  the  portals  of  the  old  Mission 
after  they  were  no  longer  opened  for  service,  or  to 
pass  within  the  cemetery  inclosure  when  the  dead  were 
no  more  permitted  burial  there.  One  might,  perhaps, 
sometimes  see  a  solitary  tourist  walking  slowly  among 
the  mounds,  or  a  poet  or  a  painter  in  sympathy  with 
the  quiet  corners  of  the  great  town,  or  some  mourner 
(gray,  and  wrinkled,  and  old)  who  had  come  to  pray 
at  the  grave  of  some  dear  one,  long  dead. 

Even  in  those  days  there  were  few  new  graves — 
already  they  were  laying  away  their  dead  elsewhere. 
You  tried  to  decipher  the  lettering  on  some  of  the 
moldering  stones,  but  the  carving  had  been  eaten  into 


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77 


by  the  years,  and  lichens  and  moss  dulled  the  lines  you 
could  no  longer  read.  Of  the  newer  ones,  none  had 
been  carved  within  a  double  decade;  and  these  were 
scattered,  and  so  few  you  could  have  counted  them  on 
your  two  hands.  Here  it  was,  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  that  they  buried  the  early  Mission  Indians 
who  died  believers  in  the  faith  to  which  (ere  ever  the 
gringo  came  to  crowd  them  out  of  the  land  of  their 
birth)  they  had  been  guided  by  the  gentle  teachings  of 
the  holy  father — good  Father  Palou.  Padre  Palou — 
the  first  priest  of  the  gray -walled,  tile-roofed  Mission 
with  its  graceful  columns,  and  beautiful  campanile 
where  they — priest  and  peon,  and  soldier  heard  the 
bells  ring  out  when  San  Francisco  was  born. 

Above,  where  swallows  darted  in  and  out  of  the  open 
belfry  arches,  you  saw  hanging  the  bells  that  were 
brought  over-sea  from  old  Castile.  Over  there,  the 
women  of  Spain  (so  the  priest  told  you),  had,  ere  the 
bells  were  cast,  flung  into  the  hot,  molten  metal  their 
chalices  and  chains  of  silver  and  of  gold;  and  so  these 
went  to  the  making  of  that  melody  which  rang  forth 
from  the  shadowed  campanile  as  the  people  of  the  new 
world  came  to  San  Francisco's  first  temple  to  pray. 

Do  you  remember  the  pealing  of  those  bells?  If  you 
are  one  of  those  who  ever  heard  their  clanging  as  you 
passed  under  the  archway  of  the  door  to  the  cool 
shadows  within,  and  you  saw  the  shafts  of  golden  sun 
light  slanting  down  from  high  windows  to  rest  upon 
the  bowed  heads  of  devotees  beneath — if  you  saw  the 
filmy  blue  strands  of  incense  float  upward  from  the 
swinging  censer,  while  you  listened  to  the  monotone 
of  Latin  words  in  chanting  invocation,  or  the  softer 
Spanish  coming  from  the  lips  of  the  dark  young  priest 
— if  you  ever  heard  the  Gloria  swell  from  the  recesses 
of  the  choir,  where  tenor  notes  (clear  and  sweet  as  the 
singing  of  the  angels)  thrilled  you  to  your  heart's  core 


Under 
the 

Canvpan- 
erio 


78 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Under 
the 

Campan- 
erio 


with  their  melody — if  you  ever  knew  any  of  these  under 
the  old  tiles  and  rafters  in  the  days  that  were,  then 
surely  you  have  not  forgotten. 

And  you  remember  how  a  time  came  that  the  church 
was  found  to  be  too  small  for  the  numbers  who  gath 
ered  there  to  worship ;  and  you  know  how  it  was  soon 
flanked  by  a  larger,  finer,  newer  edifice  of  red  brick, 
and  the  little  Mission  was  closed.  No  longer  did  priest 
or  penitent  pass  within  to  prayers.  Save  only  on  Sat 
urdays  and  Sundays,  of  mornings — when  the  doors 
opened  to  visitors — might  one  enter.  Finally  (so  few 
there  were  who  ever  came)  it  was  not  opened  at  all. 
Good  Father  Palou  had  lain  for  more  than  a  century 
dead;  time  had  made  the  Mission  old — and  us  a  for 
getting  people. 

And  all  the  while  the  work-a-day  city  had  kept 
crowding  up  to  its  walls,  clamoring  for  the  ground  on 
which  it  stood.  It  pushed  back  the  graves  where  had 
been  buried — first,  the  Indians;  and  then  the  soldiers 
(Spanish  and  American  side  by  side) ;  and  then  all 
those  others  who  may  lie  in  consecrated  ground. 

Years  afterward,  on  a  clear  Spring  morning  when 
the  air  was  fresh-washed  by  the  rain  of  but  a  day  and 
a  night  before,  and  the  blue  sky  still  held  in  its  infinite 
vault  the  great  cumulus  clouds  which  the  wind  had  not 
yet  found  to  blow  away,  I  went  to  see  once  more  the 
spot  that  was,  so  soon,  to  be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

The  city  authorities  had  decided  upon  cutting  a 
street  through;  and  the  dead  must  move  on. 

As  I  closed  the  little  picket  gate  behind  me,  all  the 
rude  sounds  of  the  city 's  traffic  seemed  to  be  shut  with 
out.  The  din  of  the  great  living  ferment  echoed  faint 
and  far.  How  very  still  it  was !  A  hush  that  fell  like 
a  brooding  peace  upon  the  fret  of  one's  days!  I  wan 
dered  at  will  and  undisturbed  through  the  neglected 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


shrubbery,  where  the  yellow  shine  of  the  morning  sun 
was  drying  the  rain-wetted  grass  and  weeds.  I  sud 
denly  felt  myself  far — very  far — away  from  the  com 
mercialism  of  the  world  that  was  but  just  outside; 
that  outside  world  which  was  stopped  from  entering 
in,  as  though  the  sword  of  a  guardian  angel  at  the 
gate  forbade  it  coming  further,  a  disturbing  element 
which  had  no  place  in  the  garden  of  those  who  sleep, 
and  where  the  old  Franciscan  Fathers  walked  in  the 
days  when  they  were  hewing  a  way  for  civilization  to 
tread  in  their  march  to  the  Western  sea.  How  we  for 
get  them  when  we  of  the  West  boast  of  our  deeds  and 
our  progress ;  how  little  of  gratitude  we  give  to  those 
who  made  the  way  possible  and  easy  for  our  feet! 

The  wooden  fencing  about  the  graves  was  rotting 
and  awry;  the  iron  red  with  rust.  On  marble  and 
granite,  moss  (kept  green  all  the  year  around  by  the 
wet  fogs  that  nightly  came  in  over  Twin  Peaks  from 
the  sea)  had  long  since  obliterated  names  and  dates. 
Headstones  leaned  slantwise,  and  the  flagging  under 
neath  was  cracked  and  scattered.  The  church  walls 
(boarded  over  to  guard  against  the  vandal  fingers  of 
relic-hunting  tourists)  were  still  lying  in  morning- 
shadow;  but  elsewhere  the  sun  was  shining  warmly 
down  from  between  the  wool-white  clouds  which  hung 
motionless  in  the  California  sky.  It  was  drying  the 
outer  leaves  of  thick  woven  masses  of  vines  it  could 
not  penetrate — climbing  roses,  growing  wild;  and  jas 
mine,  yellow  and  white,  and  ivy  which  held  them  to 
gether  in  its  strong  clasp. 

The  old  churchyard  had  long  been  un tended  by  man ; 
but  Nature  was  lavish  in  her  care,  and  there  had  grown 
a  wealth  of  glossy -leafed  plants  which  ran  riot  every 
where,  hiding  what  time  had  touched  with  decay. 
Such  a  wreathing  and  twining  of  tombstones  with 
myrtle  and  ivy!  Such  thick  growths  of  wide-bladed 


Under 
the 

Campan- 
erio 


80 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Under 
the 

Campan- 
erio 


grasses  as  there  were!  They  choked  the  old  gravelled 
walks,  and  hid  the  broken  flagging.  Castilian  rose 
bushes  grew  as  their  own  sweet  fancy  dictated — un- 
trimmed,  untrained,  and  beautiful  in  their  fragrant 
pinkness.  White  moss-roses  nestled  against  the 
weather-beaten  wood  of  railing  and  fallen  posts. 

And  so — under  tall,  wide-branching  pepper-trees  and 
cypresses  that  grew  as  Nature  willed  all  trees  should 
grow — I  went,  walking  knee-deep  through  the  rank, 
lush  growth,  and  tangle  of  shrubs  and  unrestrained 
vines;  only  now  and  then  finding  some  path  made  by 
the  feet  that  went  their  way  to  the  later  graves. 

I  scraped  the  moss  away,  and  spelled  thereon  names 
that  marked  the  epochs  of  California  history ;  and  other 
names  that  belonged  to  far  away  lands.  I  came  to  the 
tall  shaft  under  the  eaves — close  to  the  church's  side 
door — where  lies  California's  first  Mexican  governor: 


Aqui  yacen  los  restos 
del  Capitan 
DON  LUIS 

ANTONIO  ARGUELLO 

Primer  Gobernador  del  Alta  California 

Bajo  el  Gobierno 

Mejicano 

Nacio  en  San  Francisco  el  21  de  Jimio,  1774 

y  nwrio  en  el  mismo  lugar 

el  27  de  Marzo,   183O 


Farther  along  was  a  brown  stone  monument — quite 
the  most  conspicuous  there;  it  was  adorned  with  fire 
men's  helmets  and  bugles  in  stone.  The  shadows  of 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


81 


the  drooping  pepper  sprays  moved  across  its  face  as 
I  read: 


SACRED 

to  the 

Memory  of 

JAMES    P.   CASEY 

who 

Departed  this  Life 
May  23,   1856 
Aged  27  Years 


May  God  forgive  my 
Persecutors 

Requiescat  en  pace 

Casey  who  shot  James  King  of  William — Casey  who 
was  hanged  by  the  Vigilantes!  The  stone  was  placed 
there  by  the  members  of  the  famous  fire  company  to 
which  he  had  belonged.  It  recalled  a  strange,  wild 
chapter  of  California  history,  oddly  out  of  keeping  with 
the  hour  and  the  place. 

But  a  few  feet  away  I  came  upon  a  baby's  grave — a 
babe  of  sixty  years  before.  On  the  white  marble  clung 
a  butterfly — slowly  opening  and  closing  wings  splotched 
in  lovely  color.  It  was  as  though  that  emblem  of  im 
mortality  were  the  innocent  soul  come  forth  from  the 
mold  into  the  sunlight  of  the  incomparable  day,  un 
afraid  of  the  shadows  past  or  to  come. 

And  there  lay  one  who  came  from  lands  across  the 
sea.  A  wayfarer  among  a  strange  people,  he  lay  down 
by  the  Pacific's  shores;  and  there  had  slept  in  alien 


Under 
the 

Campan- 
erio 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Under 
the 

Campan- 
erio 


earth  for  a  double  score  of  years.     'Twas  the  tomb  of 
the  Chevalier: 

ICI 

repose 

PIERRE  ROMAIN  de  BOOM 
Chevalier  de  1'ordre 

DE  LEOPOLD 

NE  EN  LELGIQUE 

decede  a  San  Francisco 

le  3  Mars,  1857 

Age  de  44  ans. 

The  myrtle — a  tangled  mass  of  purple  bloom  and 
green  leaf — had  grown  until  it  filled  the  square  wooden 
enclosure,  stacking  it  railing-high,  hiding  the  mound 
completely. 

Out  through  the  little  gate  I  passed,  and  back  to  the 
world.  Softly  I  latched  it,  and  turned  away  from 
those  who  "after  life's  fitful  fever"  slept  well;  and 
whose  rest  would  be  undisturbed,  though  the  traffic  of 
a  great  city  should  roll  above  them. 


IN  THE  DAYS  OF  HANK  MONK. 


'H,  the  fine,  free  days — the  old-time  days 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains  ere  ever 
they  knew  tie  or  rail,  or  the  discordant 
sound  of  whistle  or  bell !  When  the  long, 
brown  road  had  many  a  twist  and  turn, 
and  it  was  a  joy  to  follow  it  in  its  wind 
ings  as  the  six-horse  stage  swung  around  the  grades  on 
the  sides  of  the  pine-clad  mountains!  The  day  was 
never  too  long,  nor  the  way  too  far,  when  one  went 
with  wine  in  the  blood  and  song  in  the  heart,  in  those 
years  when  we  and  the  world  were  young.  Time  has 
grown  gray,  and  we  have  grown  old,  and  nothing  is 
ever  the  same.  The  world  goes  round  and  round,  and 
the  years  go  over  and  over ;  but  the  cycles  of  progress 
bring  us  little  compensation  for  those  precious  things 
we  lost — and  loved — when  the  open  road  was  before  us. 
What  did  we  care  for  discomforts,  or  delays,  or  the 
things  which,  today,  annoy,  and  worry,  and  wear?  We 
were  young,  and  the  world  was  our  own;  we  were 
ready  for  any  experience — for  the  rough-and-tumble  of 
life  and  adventure. 

Back,  through  the  years,  my  memory  goes  to  a  trip 
I  made  over  the  mountains  in  the  'Sixties. 

We  were  to  cross  the  Sierras  to  a  mining  camp  on 
the  farther  side,  starting  from  San  Francisco. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


in  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


It  had  been  raining  incessantly  for  days,  and  the 
city's  gutters  were  running  with  water  to  the  curbs. 
Men  hurried  along  bending  their  umbrellas  against  the 
storm;  few  women  were  seen  on  the  streets.  Rain, 
and  wind,  and  the  dirge  of  fog  whistles  on  the  bay! 
Not  a  well-chosen  time  for  a  trip  into  the  very  home 
of  the  Storm  King!  But — with  that  fine  disregard 
youth  has  for  consequences — we  went  up  the  gang 
plank  on  board  the  old  Chrysopolis,  and  began  the  first 
stage  of  our  journey.  Out  through  the  gray  rain,  over 
the  gray  waters,  she  churned  her  storm-tossed  way  up 
the  harbor,  and  into  the  Sacramento  river.  We  ate 
dinner  on  dishes  which  refused  to  maintain  their  equi 
librium,  as  the  old  steamer  rolled  and  pitched  in  the 
face  of  the  wind;  and  all  night  long,  as  we  lay  in  our 
berths,  we  hearkened  to  the  lashing  of  the  storm.  The 
wind  was  a  gale;  the  rainfall  had  become  a  deluge. 
Yet  we  were  undismayed  at  what  was  in  store  for  us 
when  we  should  be  set  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 
Verily  the  faith  of  youth  in  youth's  own  ability  to  meet 
obstacles  is  a  good  thing. 

Morning  found  us  at  Freeport  (I  wonder  if  it  is  still 
on  the  map?)  but  we  found  no  abatement  of  the  storm. 
Far  as  we  could  see,  the  country  seemed  a  vast  gray 
ocean.  And  out  into  the  dripping  sheets  of  wind 
blown  rain  we  went,  and  transferred  to  the  State's 
earliest  railway — a  little  stretch  of  track  which  later 
became  (so  I  am  told)  a  part  of  the  Placerville  branch 
of  the  Southern  Pacific.  But  that  was  in  the  days 
before  the  Southern  Pacific  had  come  into  existence. 

Through  the  leaky  roofs  of  those  primitive  coaches 
the  water  dripped;  it  dripped  into  the  laps  of  the 
women,  and  down  the  backs  of  the  men.  Tiny  rivulets 
found  their  way  under  the  passengers'  feet,  as  streams 
of  rain  found  their  way  inside.  Middle-aged  pessimists 
stared  at  each  other  in  gloomy  silence,  for  now  it  was 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


85 


impossible  to  see  anything  out  through  the  rain-washed 
window-panes.  Optimistic  youth  found  interest  in 
studying  the  effect  of  the  situation  on  the  different  tem 
peraments,  and  in  speculating  on  the  depth  of  the  snow 
in  the  high  Sierras — for  snow  was  a  joy  and  a  delight 
to  the  native-born  Calif ornian  who  lived  down  by  the 
bay. 

Conditions  did  not  change  until  the  train  (rocking 
from  side  to  side  over  the  uncertain  roadbed,  and  drag 
ging  itself  slowly  on)  came  to  the  terminus  of  its 
thirty-mile  run  to  Latrobe — a  town  somewhere  in  El 
dorado  County.  The  name  comes  back  to  me  after 
these  many  years,  but  of  the  place  I  can  recall  nothing 
but  the  blur  of  rain.  Here  it  was  that — wading 
through  mud  and  water  which  was  over  our  shoe-tops 
— we  again  transferred;  this  time  to  one  of  the  three 
six-horse  stages  which,  together  with  a  fast-freight 
wagon,  evolved  themselves  out  of  the  worse  than 
Scotch  mist.  In  these  days  we  complain  if  a  light 
shower  leaves  a  dozen  raindrops  on  us  as  we  pass  from 
railway  car  to  covered  motor-car  at  a  station.  The 
moving  years  make  us  hypercritical  of  our  luxuries. 

Once  within  the  stage,  where  we  packed  ourselves 
and  our  small  luggage  in  close  quarters  (for  every  seat 
was  taken)  quick  fingers — outside — fastened  us  in,  but 
toning  down  closely  the  leather  curtains;  leaving  us 
in  a  dismal  half-darkness  that  was  wholly  eerie,  but  a 
delight  to  the  young  mind  that  wove  stories  out  of  the 
mysterious  gloom,  peopling  it  with  creatures  quite  as 
real  as  the  passengers  who  sat  with  hat-brims  turned 
down,  and  coat-collars  turned  up,  listening  to  the  pelt 
ing  of  the  storm.  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  heavens 
had  united  their  rains  into  one  vast  cloudburst. 

The  stages  lurched,  and  rocked,  and  rolled  their  way 
up  toward  the  mountains.  Overhead,  rain — rain — 
rain;  and  mud,  and  endless  mud  beneath  us.  Condi- 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


86 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


tions  were  too  depressing  to  even  permit  of  the  ex 
change  of  jokes,  and  telling  of  best  stories,  that  comes 
to  those  who  are  shut  up  in  close  quarters  on  a  long 
journey.  Only  a  girl — a  very  young  girl — found  it 
diverting. 

Up  the  rough  road,  on  over  the  uplands,  across  mesas 
and  low  hills,  and  finally  the  horses  splashed  along  the 
roadway  leading  into  Placerville.  In  those  days  it  was 
full  of  bustle  and  life  that  even  the  drizzle  could  not 
dampen;  and  an  interesting  crowd  stood  on  the  plat 
form  of  Wells,  Fargo  &  Company's  office  where  the 
steaming  horses  stopped,  and  the  drivers  unloaded,  and 
took  on  mail.  An  interested  crowd  they  were,  too,  for 
they  peered  curiously  into  the  stage  where  sat  a  woman 
brave  enough  to  tempt  Providence  by  crossing  the 
mountains  during  a  midwinter  storm.  They  stared  at 
the  woman  and  the  very  young  girl;  and  the  latter  as 
frankly  returned  the  stare  of  those  in  mud-spattered 
oilskins  which  shed  oceans  of  rainwatery  tears  when 
ever  their  wearers  moved  this  way  or  that.  For  three 
long  weeks,  they  told  us,  there  had  been  no  cessation 
of  the  rain ;  not  one  hour  of  clear  skies  had  there  been. 
Business  men — called  across  the  mountains — reaching 
Placerville,  had  become  fearful  of  what  they  might  en 
counter  beyond,  and  had  not  dared  to  venture,  so  had 
£,one  back  to  their  homes  at  "the  Bay."  No  wonder 
it  was  that  those  there  found  an  interest  in  seeing  the 
mother  and  daughter  bent  on  essaying  what  men  had 
turned  back  from. 

Afternoon  found  the  stages  encountering  less  mud, 
as  the  road — now  leading  up  among  the  pine  trees  and 
granite  boulders — reached  higher  altitudes.  Then 
climbing  the  "slippery  ford"  which  all  the  old-time 
teamsters  knew  only  too  well.  Ford  indeed!  A  slope 
of  granite  had  here  inclined  against  the  mountain, 
which  was  well-night  impossible  to  cross.  Like  a  plane 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


87 


of  polished  glass  it  had  been  for  any  man  or  horse  to 
attempt  to  find  footing  on,  until  the  Stage  Company 
had  blasted  off  the  smooth  surface  and,  by  macadamiz 
ing  it,  had  given  animals  a  foothold  there.  Even  so,  it 
was  the  dreaded  spot  in  the  road,  and  teams  and  drivers 
alike  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  when  once  it  was  passed. 
Our  horses  plunged  up  the  so-called  ford  in  leaps  which 
brought  more  than  one  down  with  skinned  knees,  to  at 
last  reach  the  top;  then  on  to  higher  lands,  where  the 
rain  turned  to  sleet,  and  the  sleet  to  fine  snow.  A  bit 
ter  wind  was  in  our  faces,  and  the  leather  curtains 
which  we  had  rolled  up  when  the  rain  ceased,  now 
came  down  again;  and  we  sat  in  semi-darkness  for 
hours  till  the  creaking  of  the  stage  stopped,  and  our 
driver  unbuttoned  the  curtains,  saying  cheerily: 
"Yere's  whur  we  git  supper  and  stay  all  night!  Git 
out." 

Oh,  how  good  was  the  hot  supper  we  sat  down  to 
about  the  long  table  in  the  "Strawberry  Valley 
Hotel!"  How  the  pine-log  blazed!  How  delightful 
was  the  sleep  that  came  to  us  in  the  warm,  soft  beds 
after  the  day-long  ride  punctuated  with  jolts  and 
bumps!  How  hard  it  was  to  awaken  before  dawn, 
when  thumpings  on  the  panel  of  the  door  aroused  us 
from  deep  and  pleasing  dreams,  and  to  realize  that  the 
" Passengers  for  the  sta— age!  Breakfast  in  thirty 
min — utes!"  was  meant  for  us.  Why,  we  had  but  just 
nestled  into  the  soft  blankets  and  clean  sheets  a  moment 
ago — how  could  it  be  morning?  But  morning  it  was, 
though  not  yet  daylight;  and  we  ate  breakfast  under 
the  yellow  shine  of  the  swinging  coal  oil  lamps  sus 
pended  above  the  long  table.  Someone  came  in  from 
the  street,  shaking  the  snow  from  his  overcoat,  and 
stamping  his  feet  to  warm  the  chilled  blood.  Outside, 
we  could  see  as  the  door  swung  in,  it  was  yet  dark. 
But  when  breakfast  was  eaten,  and  our  luggage  and 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


88 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


ourselves  again  made  ready  for  resuming  the  journey, 
and  we  went  forth  to  take  our  places  in  the  stages 
drawn  up  to  the  door,  we  found  the  dawn  there,  and 
all  about  was  a  great  snowy  world.  Only  ourselves 
and  those  engaged  in  getting  us  off,  moved  in  the  white 
silence. 

Where  were  the  wheels  of  yesterday's  stage?  These 
had  been  replaced  by  coach  bodies  set  upon  runners; 
we  were  to  go  sleighing  over  the  summit !  So  into  our 
seats,  with  the  fur  robes  tucked  tightly  around  us  to 
keep  out  the  cold;  then  to  give  the  drivers  free  rein 
on  the  road! 

Oh! 

And  now  befell  the  wondrous  thing  that  made  that 
ride  the  most  memorable  of  all  the  trips  in  those,  my 
early  days! 

It  will  not  seem  so  wonderful  to  you  of  a  younger 
generation,  who  know  nothing  of  the  glamor  that 
hung  about  the  heroes  of  that  far  time;  but  to  those 
who  lived  in  the  old  days,  and  who  knew  the  old 
61  characters"  that  belonged  to  the  unspoiled  West,  it 
explains  itself  when  I  tell  you  that  our  own  stage  was 
to  be)  driven  by  Hank  Monk! 

Hank  Monk,  the  incomparable!  The  most  daring — 
the  most  reckless  of  drivers;  and  the  luckiest.  The 
oddest,  the  drollest  of  all  the  whimsical  characters  who 
made  Western  staging  famous  the  world  over.  Hank 
Monk,  the  hero  of  the  thousand-time-told-story  of  the 
great  record-run  he  made  to  get  Horace  Greeley  "  there 
on  time"  when  the  great  editor  was  to  lecture  in  a 
little  mountain  "city." 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him  now — his  clumsy,  awk 
ward  movements— his  slow  and  bungling  way  of  gath 
ering  up  the  reins,  or  reaching  for  the  long-lashed 
whip.  But,  oh!  the  magic  of  his  touch,  as  the  horses 
answered  the  drawling  "Gid-dap!"  of  the  man  whose 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


master  hand  they  instinctively  gave  their  allegiance  to. 
His  fingers  on  the  reins — a  message  went  down  the 
telegraph-line  of  leathers,  unread  by  us,  which  every 
horse  understood  as  a  wire  operator  understands  the 
Morse  code.  They  leaped  forward  into  the  snowy  road 
in  answer,  while  I  drew  a  long  breath  of  delight.  I  was 
riding  behind  six  strong  and  splendid  young  horses 
that  were  driven  by  Hank  Monk! 

It  was  a  dream  come  true !  I  am  quite  sure  that  had 
anyone  asked  me  which  of  the  two  I  would  rather  see 
— hear — speak  to,  Hank  Monk  or  the  President  (and 
that  meant  Abraham  Lincoln),  it  would  have  been  the 
former  I  unhesitatingly  would  have  chosen.  Without 
doubt,  my  youthful  judgment  was  biased,  but  the  fact 
remains. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  that  ride!  I  wish  there  was  to  be 
found  anything  now,  in  this  year  of  grace  one  thousand 
nine  hundred  and  nine,  that  could  give  me  the  delight 
I  knew  that  day! 

Fresh  horses  every  twelve  miles;  and  every  horse 
"driven  for  all  he  was  worth!"  With  the  sharp  air 
stinging  our  ears,  and  the  big  white  flakes  whirling  into 
our  faces,  we  awoke  to  the  exhilaration  of  being  car 
ried  onward  to  the  heights  of  pines  and  firs,  while  Hank 
encouraged  his  galloping  team  with  the  most  unique 
and  amazing  language  ever  used  for  such  purpose. 
From  the  bundle  of  furs  on  the  box  came  that  unceas 
ing  flow  of  words — forceful,  grotesque  and  amusing — 
which  kept  the  six  horses  at  a  pace  that  put  the  miles 
of  lower  roads  quickly  behind  us.  Before,  and  above, 
was  the  mountain,  a  seemingly  illimitable  mass  of  the 
softest  of  deep  snow.  Snow  everywhere;  underfoot, 
overhead.  Tamaracks,  and  firs,  and  pines  were  so 
heavily  burdened  that  the  branches  were  bent  down 
ward  till  their  tips  were  buried  in  the  snow-covering  of 
the  ground.  Where  the  snowfall  of  a  few  days  before 


In  the 
Days  of 
Honk 
Monk 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In  the 
Days  of 
Honk 
Monk 


had  half -thawed,  and  then  again  frozen,  it  had  encased 
the  spines  and  leaves  of  every  tree  on  the  mountain  in 
a  glittering  crystalline  network  of  indescribable  love 
liness;  and  all  the  while  soft,  new  flakes  were  falling 
and  weighing  down  the  branches  more  and  more,  until 
— grown  into  great  unwieldy  masses — they  would  of  a 
sudden  tumble  off,  and  the  boughs — released  of  their 
burden — would  spring  up  again,  bare  and  green,  to 
their  wonted  places. 

Telegraph  wires  hung  heavy;  so  coated  with  the 
frozen  particles  that — large  as  a  ship's  cable — they 
sagged  from  the  poles;  the  buried  poles  themselves 
seeming  to  be  great  daggers  driven  hilt-deep  into  the 
bosom  of  the  virgin  snow. 

The  bells  jangling  their  riotous  music,  the  sleighs 
dashed  through  half  a  mile  of  white  fog — a  huge  fog- 
bank  that  but  made  the  cloudland  scene  the  lovelier; 
for  while  a  fog  from  the  sea  always  seems  to  hide  some 
thing  that  is  dark  and  unlovely,  a  mountain  fog  in 
Winter  suggests  a  whole  world  of  white  and  radiant 
objects.  Through  that  enchanted  fairyland,  walled  by 
the  clouds  and  the  snow,  over  the  Summit;  past  dark 
Tahoe  (frozen  and  cold),  out  of  the  land  of  the  pines, 
and  tamaracks  and  firs,  on,  and  still  on  we  dashed ;  and 
so  down  the  other  slope  of  the  mountain  that  looked 
into  the  Carson  Valley. 

Twice  had  the  other  stages  gained  upon  us — twice 
had  they  passed ;  only  to  be,  in  turn,  repassed  by  Hank 
and  his  matchless  six.  The  snapping  of  the  long  lash 
cutting  through  the  still  air  sounded  like  firecrackers 
on  a  Chinese  New  Year.  He  was  putting  his  big  bays  to 
the  utmost  test  of  their  speed,  and  now  we  were  racing 
in  earnest.  Down  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Sierras  we 
flew  as  though  flung  by  some  giant  force  from  the  crest 
of  the  mountain.  The  galloping  horses  leaped  madly 
down,  urged  to  renewed  efforts  by  the  cut  of  the  lash 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


91 


swung  far  out  over  the  leaders'  backs  by  the  driver, 
as  in  and  out  of  ravines  and  canons,  swinging  around 
sharp  curves,  tearing  along  the  edge  of  precipices, 
where  the  slightest  miscalculation  would  have  hurled 
us  hundreds  of  feet  below,  and  where  every  turn  must 
be  figured  to  a  nicety,  we  raced,  and  raced  wildly — 
the  snow  striking  back  from  the  horses'  beating  hoofs 
pelted  us  like  snowballs,  while  the  sharp  wind  cut  our 
faces  like  a  whip-lash. 

Twice  had  horses  been  changed  since  the  race  began. 
We  had  passed  the  other  stages  with  a  wild  hurrah, 
coupled  with  Hank's  jeers  of  derision ;  and  the  big  ani 
mals  jumped  their  length  each  time  they  threw  their 
feet  forward,  gaining,  steadily  gaming — at  every 
spring.  Still  was  he  urging  them  on.  The  pace  was 
terrific  for  any  but  the  best  of  roads — which  this  one 
was  not ;  here  it  was  the  maddest  of  reckless  daring  to 
attempt  it.  No  one  thought  of  that  now ;  for  the  spirit 
that  had  possession  of  all — the  gambler's  chance  to  win 
(or  lose)  dominated  each  one  of  us.  To  win!  To  be 
first  in  at  the  finish !  The  disregard  of  life  and  limb — 
the  taking  chances  with  death — it  was  all  forgotten. 

We  were  going  like  the  wind  when,  without  warning, 
we  (horses,  sleigh,  passengers,  driver  and  all),  were 
flung  into  a  tangled  heap  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  by 
the  breaking  of  the  tongue.  But,  Heaven  be  praised! 
it  was  at  the  upper  edge.  Hank  had  shot  head-first 
into  the  soft  snow,  never  losing  his  grip  for  one  instant 
on  the  reins;  and  before  the  floundering  horses  could 
make  the  mishap  any  worse,  he  had  been  dragged  out 
by  the  passengers  who  had  topped  the  heap  and  were 
unaffected  by  the  spill,  and — though  dazed  a  bit  for  a 
few  minutes— in  a  marvellously  short  time  he  had 
straightened  out  the  tangle,  and  spliced  the  broken 
tongue  with  short  bits  of  rope,  which,  however,  looked 
none  too  strong  for  safety.  We  were  not  yet  back  in 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


92 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


our  places  when  the  rival  stages  and  the  fast  freight 
wagon  (racing,  too) — exulting  in  our  mishap — went  by 
with  whoops  that  would  put  an  Indian  on  the  war-path 
to  shame,  and  we  felt  that  the  race  was  lost.  We  did 
not  greatly  care ;  for  the  little  accident  had  brought  us 
back  to  a  world  of  realities,  and  we  noted  how  far  it 
was  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  Our  blood  was 
cooling,  and  with  it  our  ardor  for  racing  along  grades. 
"Go  slower,  Hank!"  all  cautioned  him. 

He  shook  his  old  head.  ' '  Why,  I  broke  that  pole  on 
a  purpose,  so  I  could  fix  a  jint  in  the  middle;  it'll  turn 
sharp  corners  quicker."  Importunities  were  of  no 
avail.  And,  like  Gilpin,  away  we  went  again;  the 
"jint"  working  much  better  than  might  be  expected. 
Or,  it  might  have  been  we  were  too  much  occupied  in 
keeping  our  seats  to  note  precisely  how  it  worked. 

Faster  than  ever,  now,  went  the  team  down  the 
slopes  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas;  and  Hank  shouted,  and 
whipped,  and  swore  his  six  whirlwinds  into  a  fury  of 
speed.  The  stage  lurched  from  side  to  side  of  the  road, 
and  we  swung  perilously  near  the  outer  edge  of  the 
grade  as  the  jointed  pole  snapped  us  around  the  sharp 
turns ;  but  he  only  redoubled  his  yells  and  let  the  long 
lash  sting  the  flanks  of  the  flying  horses.  Faster  and 
faster.  It  seemed  the  speed  was  like  that  of  a  comet, 
as  Hank  coaxed  and  cursed  his  living  comets  into  a 
pace  that  was  killing.  We  waited  for  them  to  break 
their  necks — and  ours.  They  did  not.  And  no  doubt 
they  enjoyed  the  mad  run  as  well  as  their  master. 
Hank  was  too  good  a  horseman  to  force  them  to  their 

injury.  And  as  to  his  language Why,  he  cursed 

his  team  roundly,  but  always  lovingly  cursed  them. 
His  oaths  were  terms  of  endearment  which  they  and 
he  understood. 

Past  our  rivals  we  dashed,  as  we  came  down  into  the 
valley;  and — in  spite  of  delay  and  the  broken  tongue 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


93 


(or  perhaps  because  of  it),  with  the  great  Hank  Monk 
driving  them  as  no  other  stage-driver  ever  did  or  could 
guide  horses — the  six  big  bays  were  first  in  at  the  finish 
when  we  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Carson  City  stage 
office. 

Stories  of  Hank  Monk's  driving  are  many ;  and  these 
have  grown  threadbare  with  the  telling.  Yet  there  is 
no  one  who  ever  rode  with  him  as  he  sent  his  horses  on 
a  run  with  that  unerring  precision  which  was  surely  a 
gift  of  the  gods,  but  that  recalls  the  old  golden  days 
with  a  longing  for  their  realization  again,  and  all  it 
once  stood  for.  To  once  more  know  the  old  delight 
that  was  half-akin  to  fear,  when  he  sent  his  team  along 
under  the  singing  of  the  lash,  up  and  down  the  roads  of 
the  Sierras! 

The  old  stages  are  rotting  by  the  roadside;  and  the 
old  ways,  and  old  days  are  forever  gone.  And  Hank 
— Hank  Monk  (peerless,  incomparable)  lies  at  the  end 
of  the  run,  in  the  graveyard  at  Carson  City. 

Now  we  make  the  trip  across  the  mountains  in  a  few 
hours,  where  in  the  'Sixties,  it  took  as  many  days.  We 
gain  in  time  saved;  but  when  all  is  counted  and  we 
balance  the  column,  do  we  find  we  are  really  the 
gainers? 


In  the 
Days  of 
Hank 
Monk 


UP-STREAM  UNDER  A  SUMMER  MOON. 


ITTLE  waves  slapped  against  the  piling, 
sent  hitherward  by  the  craft  plowing  the 
Bay.  Ships  of  strange  sails,  and  strange 
names;  other  ships  home  from  long 
months  on  the  sea,  and  bearing  the  scars 
made  by  rough  weather,  rose  and  fell  as 
they  strained  at  their  chains  in  the  channel.  Ferry 
boats  coming  into  their  slips  bumped  against  the  piling 
which  creaked  and  swayed  from  the  force  of  the  im 
pact  ;  and  the  planks  underfoot — soaked  with  salt  fogs, 
and  smelling  of  bilge-water — trembled  and  shuddered 
in  unison.  Under  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  long  green 
moss,  and  slimy  sea-grasses  brought  in  by  the  tides, 
writhed  and  coiled  on  the  swell  of  each  wave  about  the 
worm-eaten  timbers. 

But  away  toward  the  Northeast — up  the  Bay,  and 
beyond  the  tangle  of  shipping — pink  clouds  hovered 
over  the  hills  that  were  fair  and  sweet  in  their  Spring 
time  freshness.  All  along  by  the  Coast  Range  the  light 
was  like  mother-o '-pearl;  and  out  on  the  water  (away 
from  the  wharves)  the  waves — freshened  by  the  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  ocean — sparkled  in  iridescence. 
There,  where  the  haze  was  like  a  pastel  in  pink,  and 
lavender,  and  azure,  the  river  came  out  of  the  blur  of 
mist,  and  passed  onward  and  out  through  the  Golden 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


95 


Gate,  to  mingle  its  waters  with  the  salt  blue  of  the  sea. 

Out  of  the  shell-tinted  mists,  which  were  so  elusive  in 
their  delicate  coloring  that  they  seemed  not  at  all  of 
this  earth,  but  rather  something  brought  from  a  world 
made  of  dreams,  came  a  squat  craft  flying  a  pennant  of 
black  streaks  of  smoke,  dispelling  the  illusion  of  un 
reality. 

Then  I  remembered  that  once  or  twice  each  week  a 
flat-bottomed,  stern-wheeled  steamboat  went  its  lei 
surely  way  up  and  down  the  river  between  the  Bay  city 
and  Sacramento.  Time  was,  when  there  had  been  no 
other  means  of  transportation  between  San  Francisco 
and  the  Capital  city  than  this ;  but  with  the  building  of 
the  great  railway,  the  old  river-boats  had  fallen  into 
disuse,  except  for  carrying  freight,  and  were — by  most 
of  us— quite  forgotten.  Now  and  then,  some  country 
folk — living  beyond  the  sound  of  the  locomotive-whistle 
— who  could  reach  the  outer  world  by  no  other  means, 
used  the  water-way.  Or,  some  painter  seeking  out  the 
picturesque  bits  off  where  the  plains  are  yellow  with 
sunlight,  and  the  canons  swim  in  violet  mists;  or  a 
hunter  off  for  a  week's  gunning  where  game  was  still 
plentiful;  or  someone  who  (like  myself)  loved  vagi  ant 
by-ways  leading  to  vague  places — these  only  sought  out 
the  little  weather-worn  boat  for  a  journey  through  a 
day  of  quiet  hours. 

In  the  days  of  California's  auld  lang  syne  I,  too,  with 
the  rest  had  gone  up  and  down  the  river  when  traveling 
between  the  two  cities.  How  long  had  it  been?  How 
many  were  the  years  since  I  had  gone  back  and  forth 
otherwise  than  by  the  railway?  I  tried  to  remember 
the  last  time ;  and  with  memory  dwelling  on  the  past,  a 
sudden  inspiration  came! 

Why  not  put  back  the  hands  upon  Time's  clock? 
Why  not  once  more  go  up  the  river  in  the  old  way — as 
in  the  old  days? 


Up-Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


96 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Up  Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


What  if  I  did  have  my  transportation  by  the  other 
route?  What  if  my  sleeping-car  berth  was  secured? 
What  if  it  would  be  paying  two  fares ;  and  losing  time 
in  getting  to  my  destination? 

I  did  not  want  to  save  time;  rather,  I  wanted  to 
squander  it.  Of  a  sudden  I  felt  rich;  rich  in  the 
capacity  to  live  and  enjoy!  Let  the  train  pull  out  of 
the  station  which,  like  the  head  of  a  great  snake  lying 
in  the  water,  rose  at  the  Oakland  side  of  the  bay.  I 
would  none  of  it !  I  could  take  up  my  journey  again  on 
the  cars  from  Sacramento.  There  was  no  need  for  me 
to  go  tearing  through  the  valleys  at  steam-speed, 
through  the  dust  and  the  smoke,  as  though  life  itself 
depended  on  haste.  Let  me  go  back  to  the  old  peace 
ful,  leisurely  ways,  ere  I  had  fallen  in  with  the  world's 
mob  of  mad  people  who  hurry  their  days  away.  It  was 
so  easy  to  drop  out  of  it  all — if  I  would;  and  I  won 
dered  why  I  had  never  thought  of  it  before. 

So  it  came  about  that  on  the  morrow,  as  the  little, 
out-of-date  steamer  lay  at  the  wharf,  I  went  aboard  as 
a  passenger;  and  the  venture  was  so  new  and  so  unique 
that  I  felt  I  was  embarking  on  some  long  and  mysteri 
ous  voyage. 

Unhampered  by  any  luggage  (for  already  it  had  been 
sent  forward  on  the  rail  way -train)  I  had  nothing  to 
burden  myself  with  but  the  small  handbag  I  carried. 

How  jolly  it  was !  I  felt  like  a  truant  schoolboy  with 
a  day's  stolen  delights  ahead  of  him.  The  very  fact  of 
its  unusualness  gave  to  it  the  zest  belonging  to  things 
delightful,  because  forbidden.  I  smiled  as  I  recalled 
the  perplexed  amazement  of  friends  to  whom  I  had  con 
fided  my  intention  of  going  up  the  valley  by  steamboat. 
"What  ever  induced  me  to  do  such  a  thing?  Were  no 
trains  running?  What  had  happened  to  the  railroad?" 
No  one  could  understand. 

I  went  over  to  the  rail,  and  looked  down  on  those  who 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


97 


were  following  me  onto  the  boat.  Who  were  they — 
what  were  they  like — these  people  who  (like  myself) 
chose  these  little-used  water-ways? 

If  I  were  to  be  on  board  for  three  or  four  days  (for  I 
had  been  duly  warned  by  my  friends  that  the  boats  had 
a  way  of  getting  on  sand-bars,  where  they  remained 
indefinitely)  I  wanted  to  get  a  comprehensive  view  of 
my  fellow-voyagers. 

There  were  two  or  three  ranchman  (looking  as 
though  they  might  be  transplanted  Middle- West  farm 
ers)  in  the  too-evident  discomfort  of  their  seldom-used 
"city  clothes."  Equally  evident  it  was  that  they  had 
been  down  to  "the  city"  to  sell  their  crops  (what,  I 
could  not  determine),  and  were  now  gladly — so  gladly 
getting  back  to  their  homes.  The  work,  and  the  wives, 
and  the  children  were  awaiting  them.  I  fancied  I  could 
see  the  delight  of  the  latter  when  they  would  be  given 
leave  to  untie  the  strings  and  unwrap  the  packages  the 
fathers  were  bringing.  Each  was  so  loaded  down  with 
packages,  and  parcels,  and  bundles,  that  he  looked  like 
a  veritable  Kris  Kringle.  Good  fathers — good  hus 
bands — good  neighbors,  I  was  sure. 

Following,  came  two  others ;  but  young  men — clear- 
eyed  and  alert.  Splendid  fellows  they  seemed,  and  un 
mistakably  of  the  cities.  They  were  shod  for  long 
tramping,  and  both  wore  trousers  of  corduroy  and 
brown  canvas  hunting-coats  showing  the  stains  which 
come  from  much  service.  Each  carried  a  gun-case,  and 
one  led  a  beautiful  liver-colored  setter — her  silky  hair 
shining  like  polished  copper  in  the  noon-day  sun;  her 
body  a-quiver  and  her  eyes  a-light  with  expectancy. 
What  a  glorious  fortnight  was  ahead  of  them — for  the 
dog,  and  her  masters !  The  happy  wag  of  her  tail  told 
of  the  hunting-dog's  delight  at  getting  out  of  the  city 
— at  the  prospect  of  going  far  a-field  at  the  heels  of  the 


Up  Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Up  Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


hunters!  And  her  pleasure  but  echoed  that  of  the 
office-man,  off  for  his  yearly  vacation. 

Good  luck  to  you !  and  a  happy,  care-free  two  weeks, 
with  a  full  game-bag  at  the  end! 

Up  the  gang-plank  wobbled  a  Chinese  huckster,  stag 
gering  under  the  load  which  filled  two  huge  baskets 
hung  to  the  balance  pole  over  his  shoulders.  He  had 
been  to  the  city  to  renew  his  supplies  for  working  the 
acres  he  leased  from  some  big  land  owner.  He  was 
through  with  the  business — and  the  pleasure ;  now  back 
to  the  valley!  Doubtless  he  had  smoked  many  pipes 
with  his  friends  and  his  cousins ;  without  doubt  he  had 
gambled.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  pictured  his  week  in  that 
part  of  the  city  given  over  to  the  immigrant  people  of 
China. 

Yen-she,  and  the  fan-tan  game ;  and  then  back  to  his 
labors ! 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  couple  that  came  next. 
Bride  and  groom  going  home  from  the  honeymoon! 
Home  to  the  new  house — to  the  new  life.  With  the 
other  things  he  carried  (she  was  carrying  half  of  the 
luggage),  was  a  four-horse  lash- whip,  and  two  new, 
shining  shovels.  I  looked  at  his  hands.  They  were 
the  hands  of  the  man  of  the  fields — broad,  freckled, 
and  hardened.  His  face  was  burned  by  the  wind  and 
the  sun — all  except  where,  under  the  edges  of  his  short- 
cropped  hair,  about  his  ears  and  at  the  back  of  his 
neck,  a  narrow,  white,  untanned  line  marked  the  recent 
work  of  the  barber.  How  pretty  she  was!  and  how 
young  she  was!  I  hope  they  were  happy — that  he 
always  was  kind  to  her. 

Just  as  the  gang-plank  was  to  be  drawn  away,  a 
father,  with  two  little  girls  came  hurrying  on,  and 
behind  him  trotted  his  panting  wife,  carrying  a  fat 
baby  on  one  arm  and  leading  a  very  small  boy  by  the 
hand.  Closely  following  were  two  older  boys.  The 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


family  with  all  their  belongings  seemed  to  fairly  over 
flow  one  side  of  the  deck.  Such  radiant,  beaming 
faces!  Such  radiating  joy!  Later  in  the  day,  sitting 
near  them,  I  was  an  involuntary  listener  to  their  un 
ceasing  reminiscences  of  an  unclouded  week  of  pleas 
ure,  together  in  "the  city."  How  happy  they  were — 
these  people  who  travel  the  by-ways! 

One  or  two  more  hurried  on  board,  and  then  I  heard 
the  churning  of  the  wheel.  Turning,  I  saw  a  strip  of 
greenish  water  edged  with  froth  and  foam,  where  the 
plank  had  been.  The  up-river  boat  had  started. 

Out  through  the  craft  crowding  the  San  Francisco 
shore ;  out,  into  the  beautiful  bay  encircled  with  violet 
hills;  out  past  Goat  Island's  rocky  steeps  and  grassy 
hollows;  past  Angel  Island's  smooth  green  hills, 
lovely  in  the  Summer  sunshine,  and  where,  beyond  her 
outlines,  we  could  see  Alcatraz — the  Sentinel — stand 
ing  watch  and  ward  over  the  Golden  Gate!  Past  the 
other  lesser  islands,  and  the  scattering  ships  that  lay 
at  anchor  in  the  harbor! 

As  the  boat  moved  slowly  up  the  bay  I  gave  myself 
up  to  the  quietude  which  reigned — the  peaceful  delight 
of  the  idle  hours. 

When  the  day  had  grown  into  late  afternoon,  and 
we  had  passed  sleepy-looking  Benecia  at  the  head  of 
the  bay,  the  wide  sweep  of  the  water  narrowed  until 
the  little  steamboat  found  herself  between  the  banks 
of  the  Sacramento. 

Golden  California!  Where  in  all  the  world  is  her 
like?  There  were  pictures  all  around  me.  Here, 
Nature  usually  in  her  landscapes  uses  strong  color, 
laying  it  on  broadly  with  a  full  brush ;  but  that  day  it 
was  a  gallery  of  pastels  with  which  I  was  surrounded 
— soft  blendings  of  delicate  colors.  From  desert  levels 
to  the  land's  edge  where  the  sun  drops  down  into  the 


Up-Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


100 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Up  Stream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


sea,  never  could  you  find  more  exquisite  coloring  than 
that  with  which  we  were  surrounded  as  the  late  day 
found  us  far  up-stream. 

We  had  answered  the  call  to  dinner — a  savory  meal, 
wholesome  and  appetizing — of  the  sort  which  one  finds 
in  country  farmhouses;  and  when  we  returned  to  the 
deck  it  was  to  behold  a  magical  transformation.  A 
golden  mist  (perhaps  it  was  the  river- damp  showing 
yellow  in  the  light  of  the  dying  sun)  rose  all  about  us 
to  glorify  the  atmosphere.  We  seemed  to  float  through 
a  gilded  sky. 

When  twilight  came,  it  turned  to  gray,  to  again  be 
changed  by  the  white  full  moon  to  a  silver  haze  when 
she  had  taken  her  place  in  the  heavens  after  the  sun 
had  melted  into  the  rim  of  the  Western  sea. 

Surely,  never  since  the  beginning  of  time — that 
fourth  day  of  Creation,  when  there  was  made  the 
"light  to  shine  by  night" — could  there  have  been  more 
ferfect  hours  of  white  splendor  than  were  those  when 
I  saw  the  ordinarily  prosaic  Sacramento  river  under 
the  full  Summer  moon!  The  silvery  mist  rose  about 
us,  far  and  wide — softening,  but  not  hiding  the  land 
scape.  Objects  along  the  shore — long  reaches  of  tule- 
land,  a  deserted  house  set  at  the  water's  edge,  an  old 
boat-landing — whatever  they  might  be  that  went  slip 
ping  silently  by  us  as  the  splashing  wheel  pushed  the 
little  steamer  up  between  the  low  banks  of  marsh-land 
meadow — all  were  transformed  by  the  magic  of  the 
moon's  white  light,  and  through  the  filmy  veil  became 
part  of  that  scene  of  unsurpassed  glory,  where  even  the 
willows  fringing  the  banks  showed  with  theatrical 
effect,  like  the  tinselled  trees  of  a  Christmas  play.  At 
times,  deceived  by  the  distance  which  lay  between  the 
guard-rail  and  the  faintly  marked  lines  of  the  shore, 
we  would  smother  a  cry  of  alarm  at  what  appeared  a 
too-close  approach  to  the  banks,  and  the  danger  of 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


101 


collision.  Crossing  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  the 
strong  down-sweep  of  the  current,  as  the  steamer  zig 
zagged  her  way  up  the  stream,  we  seemed  to  fairly 
brush  these  objects  which  so  unexpectedly  loomed  up 
before  us,  where  in  the  deceptive  lights  of  the  night 
time  they  arose  from  the  shore  in  exaggerated  size. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  blended  indescribable  sounds 
of  a  Summer  night ;  and  through  it  all  one  could  hear 
the  croaking  of  frogs,  the  brave  sound  of  a  distant 
watch  dog's  bark  at  a  farmhouse  hidden  behind  some 
mystic  grove  of  trees,  or  the  splash  of  a  great  fish  leap 
ing  high  out  of  the  water  in  sheer  joy  to  greet  the 
white  Lady  Moon.  Once,  as  it  passed  just  above  me,  I 
heard  the  squawk  of  a  mallard  flying  low,  and  it  seemed 
I  could  almost  feel  the  eddy  of  air  which  was  struck 
aside  by  the  sweep  of  the  strong,  swift  wings. 

Now  and  again  the  boat  swung  in  to  the  shore,  to 
leave  at  some  little  landing,  a  passenger  or  a  part  of 
the  cargo.  Many  of  these  places  looked  so  deserted 
that  one  wondered  if  anyone  would  ever  come  to  take 
away  the  freight;  wondered  where  those  who  dis 
embarked  would  go  when  they  went  out  into  the  vague 
uncertainty  of  the  distance  beyond  the  shore. 

The  broad  valley  land  about  us  seemed  so  peaceful 
and  idyllic  in  the  moonlight,  so  quiet  in  its  remoteness 
from  the  fret  and  jar  of  the  busy  mercantile  world,  it 
was  hard  to  realize  how  the  morrow  and  daylight 
would  show  grain-fields  reaching  away  to  the  moun 
tains,  with  thrifty  orchards  scattered  here  and  there. 
Morning  light  would  reveal  the  homes  of  a  hundred 
farmers,  and  green  pastures  where — under  the  spread 
ing  live  oaks  hung  with  their  gray  cobweb  moss — fat 
cattle  and  finely  bred  horses  would  be  feeding  in  the 
clover  growing  knee-deep.  It  was  hard  to  believe  it 
now  as  the  boat  glided  up  a  river  which  glistened  like 
a  stream  of  running  quicksilver. 


UpStream 
Under  a 

Summer 
Moon 


102 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Up-btream 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


Puck  and  Titania  were  there ;  Mustardseed  and  Peas- 
blossom,  too.  They  had  trooped  down  to  throw  over 
it  the  spell  of  enchantment,  and  transform  it  into  a 
land  for  the  fairies  and  the  elves.  Softly  fanned  by 
the  sensuous  night  wind  into  a  delicious  languor,  one 
wished  with  all  one's  tired  soul  that  there  might  never 
be  a  return  to  the  bustling  world,  but  that  this  might 
go  on  forever. 

Sometimes  we  approached  the  banks  so  closely  that 
we  caught  the  sweetness  of  the  garden  flowers  as  we 
passed  on  our  way — mignonette,  and  old-fashioned 
roses,  and  candy-tuft  borne  to  us  in  heavy  fragrance 
on  the  night  air.  Just  there,  where  shone  the  lamps  in 
houses  built  close  along  the  shore  under  tall  eucalypti, 
we  saw  a  woman  bending  over  her  work,  her  face  all 
in  shadow.  Just  as  the  picture  was  passing  beyond  our 
line  of  vision,  she  rose  quickly,  and  as  quickly  went 
toward  one  who  came  in,  taking  her  in  his  arms.  And 
so  the  stories  were  repeated  to  us  all  along  our  night- 
journey  up  the  Sacramento! 

One  by  one  my  fellow-passengers  were  leaving  me. 
Among  those  first  to  go  were  the  father  and  mother, 
and  the  six  hearty,  happy  youngsters.  A  smiling, 
sweet-faced  girl  all  in  pink,  greeted  them  where  they 
landed;  her  dress  making  a  bit  of  color  there  like  a 
wild  rose  in  a  hedge,  as  she  stood  in  the  glare  of  a  great 
oil  lamp  swinging  above  her — a  light  which  showed 
garish  and  out  of  place  in  the  moon's  chastened  lustre. 

At  each  landing  we  left  them  in  pairs,  or  singly, 
until  all  were  gone  save  myself,  and  the  two  men  in 
corduroys. 

For  another  hour  I  sat  on  the  deck,  watching  the 
few  passing  steamers  gay  with  lights — white,  green, 
and  red — that  were  taking  their  places  in  the  lovely 
river  picture.  Going  down  to  the  harbor  city,  they 
were  carrying  to  the  markets  the  fruits  and  vegetables 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


103 


raised  in  the  valley.  One  passed,  with  military  pris 
oners  being  removed  to  Alcatraz.  There  was  a  glimpse 
of  uniforms,  and  glintings  of  steel;  then  it,  too,  faded 
into  the  rainbow  river-mists. 

And  the  dream  went  on  as  the  hours  went  by,  but 
one  never  had  their  fill.  Finally  the  Spirit  of  Sleep 
began  softly  pressing  lids  down  on  eyes  that  never 
grew  tired.  Reluctantly  I  went  to  my  wee  stateroom, 
to  go  from  one  dream  into  others.  And  though  the 
last  thing  I  was  conscious  of  was  hearing  voices  outside 
my  stateroom  window,  where  the  canvas  and  corduroys 
still  sat  talking  together,  and  I  heard  them  tell  of  a 
wonderful  catch  of  Dolly  Varden  trout  in  the  McCloud 
river,  and  of  a  glorious  month  there  among  the  Cali 
fornia  pines,  and  other  incidents  connected  with  a  very 
material  hunting  and  fishing  trip  of  the  previous  year, 
yet  when  I  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  dream  that  a  gold  and 
jewelled  spider  spun  a  silver  cobweb  across  the  sky, 
and  that  Titania  and  the  fairies  danced  upon  its  slen 
der  threads. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  and  sleepily  opened 
my  eyes,  the  little  stateroom  was  shining  with  the  yel 
low  light  of  an  early  Summer  morning's  sun,  which  fil 
tered  through  the  shutters  in  fine  golden  grains. 

The  steamer  was  lying  quietly  at  the  Sacramento 
City  wharf,  and  as  I  lay  with  lazy  eyelids,  I  heard  far 
church-bells  ringing  for  early  Mass. 


Up-Streara 
Under  a 
Summer 
Moon 


JACK  BRUIN:  THE  GOATHERD. 


A.R  up  on  the  side  of  Cerro  Colorado, 
where  you  may  stand  (if  you  can  find  a 
footing — so  steep  are  its  rocky  slopes) 
and  look  away  off  into  the  lovely  valley 
of  the  San  Joaquin,  lying  down  beneath 
you ;  far  up  above  the  snow  line  of  Win 
ter,  among  the  California  pines  and  manzanitas,  there 
was  living  a  little  more  than  a  score  of  years  ago,  Lewis 
Ford,  solitary  and  alone,  but  for  his  flock  of  eight  or 
nine  hundred  goats,  his  half  dozen  horses,  and  Jack. 
Jack  was  a  bear. 

Eight  years  previous  to  the  time  I  write  of,  Ford  had 
found  the  little,  shining,  black  cub — soft  and  round  as 
a  ball — and  had  gathered  it  up  closely  to  his  breast, 
carrying  it  to  his  lonely  log-cabin  as  tenderly  as  though 
baby  Bruin  was  the  fairest  foundling  ever  born  under 
the  perpetual  blue  of  California  skies. 

Neighbors  he  had  none.  Visitors  were  creatures 
almost  unknown  up  there  where  a  wagon  road  was  an 
impossibility,  and  where  Ford's  own  stores  had  to  be 
carried  up  on  a  pack-horse  that  picked  its  way  care 
fully  along  the  dizzy  trails. 

The  real  love  of  solitude  is  an  acquired  taste.  Man 
is,  generally  speaking,  a  gregarious  animal;  and  if  he 


'.*ysjf;i,;<T-<  ;''-.kr';<Wf'i "?*((: i*.'**.     :j*-mi\ 


"The  bear  was  trained  to  herd  the  goats  as  the  shepherd  dogs  had  done." — Page  107 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


105 


cannot  mix  with  his  own  species  in  his  own  way,  he 
will — instinctively — turn  to  the  companionship  of  the 
four-footed  creatures  of  mountain  and  plain.  So,  Ford 
— wifeless,  childless,  and  alone — on  the  heights  of 
Cerro  Colorado,  sixty  miles  away  from  Mount  Diablo 's 
snowy  summit,  took  into  his  home  the  little  wild  waif 
of  the  mountain,  and  which,  as  the  years  wore  on,  won 
its  way  into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  man. 

But  opening  the  cabin  door  with  a  "Salve,  Bruin!" 
was  not  all  there  was  needful  to  be  done  in  so  serious 
a  matter  as  adopting  a  very  immature  bear.  Jack  had 
to  be  provided  with  a  foster-mother;  so  a  frightened, 
trembling,  bleating  she-goat  was  brought  to  the  house 
to  take  the  place  of  the  parent  he  so  missed.  It  was 
only  after  much  combined  force  and  persuasion  that 
"Lillie"  could  be  induced  to  adopt  as  her  own,  the  very 
un-kidlike  orphan  placed  in  her  care.  But  finally  the 
time  came  when  foster-mother  and  foster-child  were 
as  happy  and  content  in  their  relations  to  one  another 
as  if  the  sight  of  a  nimble-footed,  blue-haired  "Nanny" 
suckling  a  clumsy  black  bear- cub  was  of  the  most  ordi 
nary  condition  of  affairs. 

Jack  waxed  fat  on  goat's  milk;  and  a  more  docile, 
tractable  beast  never  grew  up  under  the  guardianship 
of  a  humane  and  loving  master. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  adoption  the  baby  was  a 
baby  in  truth.  He  refused  to  be  left  alone.  And  it 
would  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Ford's  that  could 
have  resisted  the  pitiful  whimper  of  the  little  fellow 
whenever  he  thought  that  he  was  to  be  left  alone  in 
the  cabin. 

Had  there  been  any  to  see  it  in  those  days,  they 
would  have  witnessed  a  strange  sight.  The  great, 
broad-shouldered  man  following  his  flock  as  they 
grazed  on  the  bunch-grass — sometimes  five  or  six  miles 
from  home — and  as  he  walked  the  steep  mountain-side 


Jack 
Bruin: 
The 
Goatherd 


106 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Jack 
Bruin: 
The 
Goatherd 


where  it  was  so  almost  perpendicular  that  it  seemed 
only  the  goats  themselves  could  gain  a  foothold  on  the 
rocks,  he  carried  the  cub  in  his  arms.  Those  arms 
grew  very-  tired  many  a  time  and  oft ;  grew  tired  with 
the  growing  weight  of  the  pet  that  was  getting  "muy 
gordo,"  but  Ford  would  not  leave  the  little  one  to 
mope  and  mourn  at  home,  and  perhaps  be  stolen  by 
some  straggling  stranger  in  his  absence.  Sometimes  a 
stray  hunter  came  that  way,  and  Ford  would  take  no 
risks. 

Ford  was  a  worker,  and  he  felt  it  was  only  right  that 
his  charge  must  learn  to  work,  too.  Bears  without 
number  are  taught  to  dance  and  do  all  sorts  of  amusing 
tricks ;  but  this  was  no  city  bear,  to  waltz  to  music  and 
hold  out  a  hat  for  a  dime.  He  was  not  to  be  taught 
accomplishments,  but  how  to  put  his  efforts  forth  in 
acquiring  useful  knowledge  to  be  applied  to  the  daily 
duties  at  hand.  So  Jack's  play  days  were  over.  He 
had  become  a  big  boy,  and  must  go  to  work,  as  other 
boys  in  the  families  of  the  poor.  So  farewell  to  the 
days  when  there  had  been  nothing  but  play !  For  Jack, 
there  had  been  play  days  in  plenty,  and  playmates;  just 
as  though  he  were  a  boy  instead  of  a  bear. 

There  had  been  times  when  Ford  left  his  flock  tem 
porarily  in  care  of  a  herder — Leandro,  the  Mexican, 
from  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  forty  or  fifty 
miles  away — and  then  Jack  and  Jack's  master  went  off 
on  jaunts,  when  the  master  hunted  with  rifle  or  shot 
gun,  and  the  bear  chased  rabbits  and  squirrels — dig 
ging  into  their  holes  till  he  captured  them.  Sometimes 
their  way  lay  across  the  mountain  to  Leandro 's  own 
place,  and  there  he  would  make  friends  with  the  chil 
dren  as  if  he  himself  was  a  child  among  them — romp 
ing  with  Carmelita,  and  Rosario,  and  Petronilla,  and 
even  playing  with  baby  Ramona,  without  so  much  as  a 
single  rough  stroke  of  the  great  clumsy  paws.  If — 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


107 


tired  out  in  play — they  threw  themselves  down  on  the 
ground,  he  too  would  drop  down,  his  huge  body  across 
their  feet  where  they  sat;  and  when  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  a  pond,  one  day,  they  shoved  him  from  where 
he  lay  sprawled  out  on  their  dress-skirts,  anchoring  the 
children  to  the  ground,  and  the  push  they  gave  sent 
him  into  the  pond,  he  displayed  no  other  evidence  of 
anger  than  a  little  growl  of  rebuke  as  he  shook  the 
water  off  after  he  had  climbed  out.  With  the  boys  he 
would  box  and  wrestle  as  two  boys  will  when  playing 
together.  Sometimes  it  was  the  bear  that  was  thrown 
— sometimes  little  Leandro. 

All  these  things  came  to  an  end;  and  Jack  was 
trained  to  herd  the  goats  as  the  shepherd  dogs  had 
done.  The  dogs,  in  time,  were  given  away — for  Jack 
could  never  be  made  to  feel  that  dogs  were  other  than 
his  avowed  enemies;  and  fights — frequent  and  fierce — 
were  the  result  of  their  associations. 

The  dogs  went ;  and  Jack  stayed.  But  he  was  made 
to  take  their  place. 

It  was  wonderful  the  aptitude  he  displayed  in  learn 
ing  to  dispense  the  duties  of  his  new  position!  True, 
there  were  times,  when  being  initiated,  that  he  played 
the  truant ;  and  was  found  away  off  among  the  manzani- 
tas,  breaking  off  great  branches  and  eating  their  dark 
and  shining  berries.  But  that  was  in  the  first  days  of 
his  responsibilities  as  assistant  herder — before  Ford 
had  trusted  him  alone  with  the  goats,  and  made  him 
herder-in-chief.  However,  a  time  did  come,  after  much 
patient  teaching,  when — true  as  a  soldier  to  his  trust 
— Jack  was  the  faithful  guardian  of  his  master's 
flocks,  and  earned  the  title  of  "Jack,  the  Goatherd  of 
the  Cerro  Colorado." 

From  sleeping  in  the  cabin  at  his  master's  side,  he 
came  to  sleeping  in  the  gateway  of  the  corral.  An 


Jack 
Bruin: 
The 
Goatherd 


108 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Jack 
Bruin: 
The 
Goatherd 


army  could  not  have  invaded  the  goats'  stronghold 
with  the  black  bear  on  guard. 

Nor  was  the  tending  of  goats  his  only  duty.  He  car 
ried  all  the  firewood  into  the  log  cabin  and  laid  it  down 
by  the  stove.  The  halter  ropes  of  two  or  three  horses 
would  be  put  between  his  teeth,  and  he  would  lead 
them  to  water,  and  back  again  to  their  mangers. 
Strange  horses,  like  human  strangers,  were  terribly 
afraid  of  him  at  first  sight,  but  Ford's  horses  knew 
him  as  they  knew  Ford  himself. 

One  day,  when  breaking  a  two-year-old  colt,  Ford 
was  obliged  to  go  into  the  cabin  for  something  needed, 
and  there  being  no  post  nearby  which  was  handy  to 
tie  his  horse  to,  he  gave  Jack  the  halter  rope  to  hold. 
The  horse  was  unused  to  the  bear,  and,  after  Ford  left 
them,  became  thoroughly  frightened,  plunging  and 
rearing  about  the  yard.  But — though  the  strain  was 
severe — the  iron  jaws  did  not  relax,  albeit  the  little 
bear  was  dragged  ruthlessly  to  and  fro,  valiantly  tug 
ging  at  the  other  end  of  the  rope. 

There  were  times  when  they  would  go  on  a  hunting 
expedition,  miles  away  from  home;  and  Ford  would 
leave  his  horse  and  saddle,  and  the  raw  meat  for  his 
luncheon  (to  be  roasted  over  blazing  cones,  by  and  by) 
and  numberless  other  things  in  Jack's  care.  The  bear 
would  as  little  think  of  touching  that  raw  meat  as  he 
would  of  attacking  Ford  himself.  And  the  horse 
would  be  found  herded  not  twenty  feet  away  from  the 
exact  spot  where  he  had  been  left  to  graze,  with  Jack 
walking  around  him  in  a  circle,  that  he  might  keep  his 
charge  well  within  the  limit  of  his  pasture. 

If  Ford  must  go  down  to  the  valley — to  Livermore, 
fifty  miles  away — a  goat  would  be  killed  and  given  to 
Jack  for  food,  with  instructions  to  look  well  after 
everything  while  he  would  be  alone  with  the  herd. 
Who  shall  say  that  the  words  Ford  used  were  not  as 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


109 


well  understood  by  Jack  Bruin  as  if  the  message  had 
been  given  in  the  silent  speech  of  bear  with  bear? 

And  is  it  a  matter  of  any  wonder  that  those  two 
loved  each  other  as  man  rarely  loves  his  fellow-man? 
Does  man  find  his  fellow-man  so  faithful — so  stead 
fast? 

By  and  by  a  day  came  when  Ford  sold  the  goats. 
He  sold  the  log-cabin,  too,  where — among  the  Pacific 
pines  and  manzanitas — for  a  double  decade  he  had 
almost  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit. 

He  was  growing  old.  A  sister  and  a  brother  across 
a  continent,  and  far  beyond  the  ocean  that  laps  its 
Eastern  shore,  were  waiting  for  him  to  come  home. 
So  there  came  another  day  when  Ford  loped  his  horse 
slowly — lingeringly — down  the  lower  slopes  of  Cerro 
Colorado,  and  the  black  bear  came  loping  at  his  heels ; 
loping  for  awhile  and  then  stopping  to  rest,  and  lying 
out  as  flat  as  if  he  were  stone  dead — then  getting  up 
again,  and  going  on  to  where  Ford  waited  for  him. 

When  they  came  into  the  town  and  the  people  heard 
that  Ford  was  leaving  the  country  never  to  return,  a 
hundred  offers  were  made  to  him  for  the  bear  that  had 
never  known  muzzle,  nor  chain,  nor  collar. 

"No,"  said  he,  "where  I  go,  Jack  goes.  If,  when  I 
get  to  San  Francisco,  I  find  that  I  can't  get  a  passage 
for  him  on  the  steamer  with  me  to  New  York,  and  an 
other  one  when  I  get  there  that  will  take  him  across 
the  Atlantic,  why  we  will  both  stay  on  this  side." 

That  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Since  then, 
letters  have  come  across  the  seas  from  Ford.  And  Jack 
is  with  him. 


Jack 
Bruin: 
The 
Goatherd 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  CAMP  McGARY. 


NJUST,  because  untrue,  is  the  implica 
tion:  "As  dirty  as  an  Indian!"  How 
often  ones  hears  this  expression  used  by 
white  Americans  who  travel  in  cars 
through  Indian-land!  Aye,  and  how 
often  (although  knowing  better  than  to 
be  such  a  sheep)  have  I,  myself,  made  use  of  it!  When 
you,  or  I,  have  said  it,  we  referred  to  the  bodily  un- 
cleanliness  of  our  brothers,  the  First  Americans.  As 
to  the  dirt  of  the  camp  itsalf — the  hogans,  the  wickiups, 
the  teepees,  are  mostly,  I  grant  you,  dirty.  It  is  dirt 
without  any  disguises;  but  wholesome  and  healthy  in 
raising  large  families,  if  one  is  to  base  one's  belief  upon 
the  living  statement  made  by  the  fat,  roly-poly  bits  of 
bronze  that  tumble  about  the  place  playing  with  the 
puppies,  and  emitting  such  gurgles  of  laughter  that 
your  own  heart  is  set  singing  at  the  sound. 

We  who  are  chiseled  out  of  white  marble  do  not  take 
kindly  to  the  lack  of  perfect  cleanliness  we  sometimes 
find  in  our  brother  who  is  cast  in  bronze ;  but  as  it  is 
mostly  the  dirt  which  can  be  cleansed  with  a  bucket  of 
water,  or  removed  by  a  broom,  let  us  try  to  forgive 
him.  It  might  easily  be  worse — out  it  isn't.  As  to  him 
self ,  Lo  keeps  his  own  body  clean  by  way  of  a  bathtub 
as  thorough  in  its  methods  as  your  own. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


Come  with  me.  Let  me  take  you  with  me  across 
valley  and  plain — riding  long  hours,  with  the  wind  in 
your  face  and  the  love  of  life  in  your  heart — away  and 
away  o'er  the  open  road,  to  the  range  of  mountains 
where,  by  the  edge  of  the  lake  with  its  lava  rim,  lies 
old  Camp  McGary.  Incidentally,  I  will  tell  you  of 
Indians  and  show  you  their  bath  houses.  It  may  be 
that  you  will  say  (when  I  have  done)  that  I  have  told 
you  how  Lo  bathes,  and  have  but  casually  mentioned 
the  old  fort  which  was  abandoned  by  our  soldiers  years 
upon  years  ago.  Whichever  way  it  may  seem  to  you 
is  immaterial.  At  least,  let  me  prove  that  Lo  in  gen 
eral,  and  Paiute  Lo  in  particular,  is  often  traduced. 
Come,  and  I  will  show  you  a  beautiful  bathing-place 
(and  there  are  hundreds  more  that  are  to  be  found  like 
it)  where  the  folk  of  Caracalla's  time,  or  any  other 
luxury-loving  old  fellow  of  those  other  old  times — 
though  having  more  luxuriously  appointed  bath-houses 
— could  never  have  been  made  cleaner. 

Away  up  near  the  top  of  a  volcanic  mountain  (which 
is  all  blended  blues  and  violets  till  you  reach  it,  and 
all  greenish-gray  with  sage,  and  mottled  with  moun 
tain  mahogany  when  you  do)  lies  a  lake,  long  and  nar 
row,  cold  and  clear.  Soundings  have  never  found  bot 
tom.  It  lies  on  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain — almost, 
but  not  quite,  at  the  top.  By  the  white  people  it  is 
called  " Summit  Lake,"  but  the  Paiutes  have  a  very 
much  better  name.  It  is  the  lake  best  beloved  by  the 
Paiutes;  not  because  of  its  trout  (yet  where  else  are 
their  like  to  be  found?)  but  because  the  white  man 
considers  the  place  as  one  too  remote  for  him  to  think 
it  worth  his  while  to  encroach  on  his  brown  brother's 
domain.  Also  it  is  cool — deliciously  cool  there  all 
through  the  hot  arid  Summer.  I  have  known  fresh 
snow  to  whiten  the  peaks  in  August.  All  the  year 
the  creek  runs  bank  full,  and  cold  as  ice  water;  for 


The 

Transfor 
mation  of 
Camp 
McGary 


112 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


The 

Transfor 
mation  of 
Camp 
McGary 


;he  snows,  melting,  send  a  stream — such  a  stream  of 
Deauty  and  song — down  through  the  canon  to  fling 
itself  joyously  into  the  arms  of  the  waiting  lake. 

All  up  and  down  the  high  slopes  are  antelope  and 
deer — not  scattering  ones,  but  large  herds.  Still 
higher,  where  the  rocks  are,  live  the  big  horn — the 
Paiute's  favorite  game. 

If  you  go  there  by  the  creek  when  the  morning  sun 
first  finds  it,  you  will  hear  the  rush  of  wings — the 
partridge-like  whirr  which,  if  you  are  a  sportsman, 
makes  your  trigger  finger  itch  for  the  touch  of  a  shot 
gun — and  dropping  down  by  dozens  and  scores  come 
sage-chickens  gray  as  the  sagebrush  that  here  grows 
tall  as  the  willows,  and  wild  gooseberry  and  rosebushes 
that  border  the  banks. 

This  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  brown  man  long 
ago.  He  lived  here  and  found  it  good  in  the  days  when 
his  name  was  a  terror  to  the  emigrant  whose  wagon 
crept  down  the  valley  beyond.  This  is  the  place  his 
great-grandchildren  seek  today,  loving  it  no  less  than 
did  their  grandsires. 

A  little  less  than  half  a  hundred  years  ago.  men 
wearing  the  old-time  soldier  blue,  marched  here  and, 
at  the  creek's  edge,  built  around  three  sides  of  a  hol 
low  square  the  substantial  stone  and  adobe  buildings 
that  made  their  shelter  in  the  days  when  they  went 
a-fighting  the  bronze  men  of  the  mountains.  When 
they  came,  the  brown  man  drew  back  and  away — 
farther  and  farther,  till  there  was  no  more  need  of 
soldiers  to  protect  the  scattered  settlers,  or  the  emi 
grant  down  below,  winding  his  way  Westward.  When 
the  bronze  man  melted  away — like  a  campfire  smoke 
blown  by  the  wind — the  man  in  blue  went  also.  There 
was  no  further  need  of  him.  Only  the  houses  he  had 
builded,  remained.  Afterward — a  very,  very  long  time 
afterward — the  bronze  man  came  creeping  back. 


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113 


Quieter  now,  and  wiser.  What  use  was  it  to  take  up 
arms  against  a  foe  that  could  not  be  counted,  so  great 
were  the  numbers?  Back  came  the  brown  man,  and  to 
the  empty  and  deserted  buildings  of  the  fort. 

Would  you  see  it  today?  The  walls  shows  the  wear 
and  war  of  the  years  and  the  elements,  but  the  name 
of  the  old  fort  survives — Camp  Me  Gary.  Still  are  the 
buildings  inhabited;  but  those  who  go  in  and  out  of 
the  officers'  quarters,  or  greet  you  at  the  door  of  the 
guard-house,  or  whom  you  meet  on  the  parade  ground, 
do  not  wear  the  soldier-blue.  The  Indian  brother  has 
sole  possession  of  the  walls  which  were  upreared  against 
his  arrows,  and  by  those  who  strived  for  his  undoing. 

It  is  here  the  Paiute  today  is  happiest  when  he  hunts 
and  fishes;  here  he  lives,  and  loves,  and — yes,  bathes! 

Down  by  the  creek-edge,  fragrant  with  the  breath 
of  sweetbriar  and  mint  and  plum-bushes  a-bloom,  is 
something  that  attracts  your  unaccustomed  eye.  Bent 
willows,  stripped  of  their  branches  and  leaves,  have 
been  thrust — each  end — arch-like  into  the  ground, 
forming  the  framework  of  a  tiny  dome-shaped  struc 
ture  whose  uses  you  are  yet  to  learn.  Willow  bands 
hold  it  together — tied  at  their  crossings  with  the  willow 
hoops  with  thongs  of  buckskin  or  bits  of  bright  cloth. 
This  one  is  perhaps  four  feet  in  diameter;  not  more 
than  two-and-a-half  high.  In  one  side  there  has  been 
left  an  opening — large  enough  for  a  grown  person  to 
crawl  through.  The  floor  is  smooth  and  clean,  and 
beaten  hard.  At  one  side  is  a  deep  hollow  in  the 
ground — bowl-shaped,  and  plastered  with  a  sort  of 
cement.  There  are  four  or  five  large  stones  lying  near 
—smooth  and  clean.  Such  is  Lo's  bathtub.  His  bath 
room  is  the  wide  sapphire  sky,  the  sage-scented  hills 
below,  and  the  cedar-sweet  heights  above,  the  rim  of 


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114 


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the  silver  lake  at  one  side,  the  rippling  stream  at  the 
other. 

Hark!    Hear  the  songs  of  larks  and  linnets! 

It  might  be  worse. 

And  now  Lo,  himself,  comes  down  to  the  place  that 
of  old  knew  the  bugle  call;  that  today  is  echoing  to 
child-laughter — the  laughter  of  Indian  children. 
When  Lo  reaches  the  framework  that  the  white  man 
has  named  for  him  "a  sweat-house"  he  unwraps  the 
blanket  from  his  body,  and  winds  it  about  the  small 
willow  hut,  fastening  it  down  tightly  everywhere  that 
no  cold  air  may  pass  through,  except  at  the  very  small 
doorway. 

Then  he  proceeds  to  build  a  fire  of  the  half-dead  roots 
of  a  sagebush  near  by.  Soon  he  has  a  great  bed  of 
red  coals,  and  into  them  he  rolls  the  big  smooth  stones 
that  were  lying  near  the  sweat-house.  While  they  are 
heating,  he  sits  on  his  heels,  and  looks  away  off  into 
the  valley  and  meditates — sits  silent  and  as  motionless 
as — well,  an  Indian.  Once  in  a  while  he  arouses  him 
self  and  rises  to  add  more  fuel  to  the  campfire;  to 
again  squat  on  his  heels  and — with  folded  arms — look 
long  and  steadily  toward  the  great  white  plains.  You 
might  easily  take  him  for  a  figure  cast  in  bronze,  he  is 
so  still.  He  has  not  forgotten,  though  he  sits  so  quiet 
you  begin  to  think  he  no  longer  remembers  what  he 
came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  lovely  bloom-bordered 
creek  for.  By  and  by  he  rises,  and  fills  the  bowl- 
shaped  hollow  in  the  floor  of  the  sweat-house  with 
water  which  he  brings  from  the  creek — fetching  it  in 
a  basket  marvellously  woven  of  willows  by  some  woman 
of  his  camp. 

Then,  at  last,  when  the  stones  are  as  hot  as  the  fire 
may  make  them,  they  are  rolled  into  the  earth-bowl 
which  he  has  filled  with  water.  There  is  a  hiss  of  ris 
ing  steam — Lo's  raiment  drops  from  him  as  by  the 


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115 


touch  of  a  magic  wand,  and  he  stands  bronze-brown 
and  naked  as  when  God  made  him.  He  stoops — 
crouches — and  now  has  slipped  under  the  curtainec 
doorway,  which  he  tightly  fastens,  and — Lo  is  taking 
his  bath.  Bathing  himself  in  the  fashion  known  to  all 
nations  as  the  most  thorough  and  cleansing. 

Lo  stays  there  longer  than  his  white  brother  could 
endure  those  clouds  of  uprising  hot  vapor.  So  long 
does  he  stay  that  you  fall  to  wondering  if  after  all  he 
may  not  have  succumbed  to  the  suffocating  heat. 

But  no;  after  a  long — a  very  long  time,  there  is  a 
movement  of  the  blanketed  doorway,  and  a  bronze 
statue  emerges  therefrom — a  statue  glistening  like 
polished  copper.  Lo  comes  forth  shining  with  the  per 
spiration  which  has  cleansed  every  pore.  There  is  a 
rush  to  the  creek's  edge — a  plunge  into  its  deepest  pool 
(ice-cold  from  the  melting  snows  which  have  gone  to 
its  filling),  and  when  Lo  comes  forth,  his  body  is  all 
aglow  from  the  quickened  blood  which  now  courses 
through  his  veins;  and  he  is  made  fresh-skinned  and 
clean  by  a  bath  which  knows  no  betters. 

"Dirty  as  an  Indian?"    Lo,  I  beg  your  pardon! 


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OLD  CAMPFIRE  DAYS. 


ERE,  in  Roseland — in  this  land  of  the 
sun,  this  land  by  the  sea — where  each 
night  as  I  fall  asleep  I  am  fanned  by 
flower-sweet  breezes;  where  (growing 
close  to  the  head  of  my  bed)  a  white  La 
Marque  clambers  to  the  wide  eaves; 
where  orange  and  lemon  trees  in  bloom  brush  the  pil 
lars  of  the  veranda  on  one  side  of  the  patio,  making  the 
air  heavy  with  their  over-sweet  perfume,  there  come 
to  me  recollections  of  other  nights — nights  spent  by 
the  campfires,  and  under  the  stars  of  the  desert. 

Do  you  care  to  listen — to  let  me  tell  you  of  those 
nights — and  their  days?  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  of 
one  ride,  in  particular,  that  memory  now  brings  back 
to  me? 

Ah!  such  a  glorious  dawn  it  had  been — that  day 
when  we  began  our  journeying.  All  purple  and  blue 
with  the  morning  mists  was  the  valley,  turning  golden 
as  the  sun  climbed  higher.  Out  through  the  gate  we 
rode,  and  away  from  the  ranch;  and  on — up  the  wide 
valley.  Across  brush-covered  mesas,  through  a  narrow 
pass  in  a  low-lying  range  of  hills — hills  that  were  pink 
and  gray,  with  never  a  sign  of  verdure ;  falling  in  with 
a  "cattle  outfit" — cowboys  driving  beef-cattle  to  the 
railroad,  the  railroad  that  was  miles  and  miles  away. 


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117 


We  kept  pace  behind  the  lowing  herds,  on  the  long 
drive  to  water;  but  at  nightfall  we  reached  an  invit 
ing  cafiada,  where  a  beautiful  stream  tumbled  and 
shouted  down  its  rocky  way;  and  there  we  spread  our 
camp-outfit  and  built  our  fires.  After  the  stock  had 
been  watered  (we  had  seen  to  it  that  they  had  their 
suppers  ere  we  had  our  own) ;  and  when  we  had  eaten 
our  fill  of  the  roast  ribs,  hot  and  juicy,  sent  over  from 
the  cowboys'  camp,  we  foregathered  about  a  huge 
brush-fire  and  listened  to  frontier  stories,  while  the 
low-hanging  stars  came  out  in  a  sky  all  purple  with 
dark.  In  the  creek  we  could  hear  the  ripple  of  water, 
and  the  twitterings  of  sleepy  birds  disturbed  by  the 
fire-glow;  but  farther  off,  the  cattle  made  no  sound — 
tired,  lying  down  after  the  long  drive.  Only  the  man 
on  guard,  whistling  "Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  and  the 
crunching  of  the  brush  under  his  horse 's  hoofs,  came  to 
us  out  of  the  shadows. 


Back  we  went  to  our  camp;  and  to  sleep  under  a 
thin  thread  of  a  moon. 

Morning !  Saddle — mount,  and  away !  Up  where 
the  air  was  clear,  and  cooled  by  the  wind  blowing  from 
the  snow-heights,  under  an  azure  sky  where  hung 
clouds  like  battle  smoke.  Away  down  on  the  plains  we 
could  see  the  dusty  banner  unfurled  by  the  slow-mov 
ing  cattle  on  their  way  to  the  stockyards!  And  fur 
ther  down  the  bleached  levels — we  watched  a  herd  of 
antelope  drift  away,  looking  like  balls  of  thistledown 
carried  along  by  the  wind.  We  watched  a  wild  stal 
lion  lead  his  little  harem  warily  up  and  down  hills  over 
a  well-worn  trail  to  the  springs  we  had  but  just  left; 
and  we  saw  him  (as  he  scented  our  recent  presence 
there)  take  fright,  and — without  waiting  to  drink — 


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go  racing  off  and  away  with  his  little  band  at  his  heels. 
Off  to  his  grazing  place,  and  to — safety! 

Crossing  the  range,  we  descended  into  a  long  canon 
filled  with  groves  of  cottonwoods  where  the  leaves  fell 
upon  us  as  we  passed  beneath,  and  where  the  quaking 
aspens  shivered  and  shuddered  in  the  chill  autumn 
wind  that  swept  down  from  the  snow-heights,  bringing 
tidings  of  approaching  storms  to  levels  down  below. 
The  trees  were  arrayed  in  every  imaginable  shade  of 
crimson,  and  russet,  and  brown.  Nature  was  announc 
ing  her  "Fall  Opening,"  and  every  leaf  was  dressed 
for  the  season's  occasion.  Some  wore  small  spots  of 
red,  others  great  splotches  of  the  vivid  color;  streaks 
and  stripes  of  yellow  and  of  brown  dappled  the  leaves. 
None  went  unadorned.  Only  the  jumpers,  up  near  the 
snow-line,  were  attired  in  conventional  green — quite 
unconcerned  at  the  frivolous  ones  gone  mad  in  a  riot 
of  gaudy  color.  The  scarlet  and  yellow  of  the  buffalo 
berries  shone  through  the  greens  growing  along  the 
creeks.  Bunch-grass,  blown  by  the  wind  that  was  scat 
tering  its  seeds,  grew  on  the  slopes;  and  from  it  our 
ponies  snatched  mouthfuls  as  we  passed. 

Leaving  the  cool  heights,  we  went  down  to  the  hot, 
dry  valley  and  joined  our  slow-moving  team  which,  in 
our  morning  hours  up  aloft,  we  had  almost  forgotten. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day — surrounded  by  wavering 
mirages — across  dry  lakes  and  their  shores  of  drifted 
sand,  we  rode.  Over  the  bleached  alkali  plains,  toward 
the  ever  receding  foothills  which  we  must  reach  before 
the  violet  shadows  should  grow  gray,  and  gray 
shadows  turn  to  black. 

As  we  rode  we  tapped  our  heels  against  the  horses' 
dusty  sides  at  every  step,  urging  them  toward  the  dis 
tant  spot  where  the  steam  from  the  hot  springs  at  the 
canon's  mouth  beckoned  us  on,  the  long  streamer  of 
misty  white  floating  like  a  magic  veil — blowing  lightly 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


to  the  Southward.  It  waved  and  beckoned;  but  at 
sunset  we  seemed  no  nearer  to  it  than  we  had  been  at 
noon;  and  twilight  found  us  yet  many  miles  away. 
Not  until  the  purpled  shadows  of  the  night  closed  in 
upon  us,  and  faint  stars  began  to  shine,  did  we  find 
ourselves  there. 

We  who  were  in  the  saddle  had  been  riding  far  in 
advance  of  our  commissariat,  so — while  waiting  the 
arrival  of  the  wagon  with  its  supplies  for  our  hungry 
horses,  and  ourselves — in  the  dim  starlight  we  went  on 
a  voyage  of  discovery  through  the  labyrinth  of  wick 
edly  boiling  springs  (of  all  sizes,  and  apparently  with 
out  number)  that  in  the  darkness  seemed  an  array  of 
frightful  monsters  with  yawning  jaws,  ready  to  draw 
us  down  with  them  into  the  black  depths.  It  was 
weird — uncanny,  to  go  about  cautiously  pushing  a  foot 
along  to  feel  our  way  lest  we  step  into  a  too-near 
caldron.  In  the  faint  light  we  could  discern  half  a 
dozen  ramshackle  buildings  of  unpainted  wood.  They 
were  grouped  irregularly  about  a  half-hundred  of  the 
evil-smelling  holes  where  sulphur-waters  boiled  and 
bubbled,  and  steamed  and  gurgled  incessantly.  A 
dense  vapor  hung  over  the  place;  and  soon  our  cloth 
ing  was  damp  from  its  touch — as  though  we  were  under 
a  fine  rain.  The  earth  for  half  a  mile  around  (as  morn 
ing  showed  us)  was  crusted  with  a  greenish  deposit 
from  the  overflow.  No  spear  of  grass,  not  a  tree,  nor 
shrub  other  than  the  stunted  greasewood  and  sparse 
sagebrush,  grew  on  the  tableland  over  which  the  boil 
ing  waters  spread. 

So — striking  matches  (which  the  desert  wind  as 
quickly  put  out!)  we  made  our  timorous  way  from 
spring  to  spring.  From  a  rusty  tin  we  drank  of  its 
healing  waters — each  spring  yielding  a  yet  more 
nauseous  draught  than  its  predecessor;  and  we  left 
them,  and  groped  our  way  through  the  steam  and 


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murkiness  (fearful  lest  we  slip  into  some  of  the  treach 
erous  vent  holes),  on  toward  the  shacks  which  loomed 
up  unnaturally  tall  in  the  world  of  mist,  waiting  us  in 
unfriendly  silence. 

Up  and  down  the  length  of  the  porch  of  the  one-time 
"Hotel"  we  went;  our  feet  clattering  noisily  on  the 
loosely  laid  boards.  There  had  been  a  time,  now  long 
in  the  past,  when  the  springs  had  enjoyed  something 
of  a  reputation  as  a  health  resort;  but  now — it  would 
seem — they  were  quite  deserted.  However,  we  would 
try  to  rouse  some  one,  if  human  beings  were  there.  We 
rapped;  we  stamped;  we  holloaed — to  hear  our  voices 
come  back  to  us  in  mocking  echoes.  Echoes  answered 
echoes  through  the  empty  rooms.  Again — louder,  as 
we  struck  with  doubled  fists  on  the  loosely  hung  doors. 
Silence — absolute  silence,  save  for  the  hoot  of  an  owl 
above  the  springs.  On  the  cracked  panes  of  the  cur- 
tainless  windows  our  knuckles  made  a  vigorous  tattoo, 
but  only  the  scurrying  of  rats  and  mice  within  an 
swered  us.  It  was  evident  that  no  other  human  beings 
than  ourselves  were  within  many  and  many  a  mile; 
the  place  was  empty — abandoned.  And  an  empty 
house — in  the  desert  and  at  night — seems  the  loneliest 
thing  in  the  world. 

The  rattle  of  nearing  wheels  was  answered  by  quick 
whinnyings  from  our  horses,  and  we  turned  from  our 
eerie  surroundings  to  meet  the  camp-wagon,  and  make 
ready  our  supper.  Soon,  in  the  clearing  near  the 
weather-worn  shacks,  we  had  a  cheery  campfire  roar 
ing. 

What  a  good  thing  life  is,  to  be  sure,  when  one  is 
young,  and  healthy,  and  hungry,  and  the  feet  are  eager 
to  go  their  way  on  the  far-reaching,  long,  brown  trail! 

Over  and  over,  we  turned  the  spit  on  which  we  had 
skewered  tender  and  juicy  slabs  of  yearling  beef -ribs, 
while  we  shaded  our  eyes  from  the  heat  and  the  fire- 


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glow,  with  bent  arms  held  across  our  foreheads,  and 
watched  the  meat  grow  brown  and  crisp  as  the  fat 
dripped  into  the  blaze,  and  the  appetite  was  whetted 
as  it  never  is  at  the  table  that  is  spread  under  a  roof. 
Oh!  the  savory  smells  that  rise  from  the  meal  that  is 
cooked  on  a  bed  of  glowing  coals!  How  hungry  we 
were — how  light-hearted  we  were!  How  good  it 
seemed  to  be  there,  where  we  circled  the  fire  like 
gypsies ;  how  glad  we  were  just  to  live  and  laugh,  and 
find  content  in  the  hour! 

By  and  by,  we  watched  the  fire  die  down  to  a  bed  of 
red  embers;  watched  them  dull,  and  then  darken,  and 
then  become  a  white  ash.  And  with  the  smoke  from 
the  blackened  log,  was  blended  that  of  the  "Golden 
Scepter"  as  it  floated  up  from  the  men's  briarwoods. 
The  talk  died  down  with  the  fire,  and  we  dreamed  the 
time  away,  as  all  who  watch  a  dying  fire  always  do 
dream.  In  fancy,  one  goes  riding  away  to  that  land 
where  all  our  dearest  dreams  come  true. 

Then  a  coyote  yelped  from  a  near-by  hill,  startling 
us  with  his  staccato  cry ;  and  once  more  we  were  roused 
to  a  consciousness  of  the  time  and  place.  To  bed!  A 
night  of  deep  sleep — sleep  under  the  blurred  stars;  to 
be  ready  for  the  morrow!  So  the  camp  beds  were  un 
rolled  and  spread  out  on  the  mineral- whitened  earth, 
and  we  lay  down  (still  amid  the  fine  clouds  of  warm 
and  sulphurous  steam)  and  fell  asleep  to  the  rumblings 
and  mutterings  of  half  a  hundred  springs,  and  the 
mournful  wail  of  the  lone,  lean  coyote. 

We  awakened  to  a  golden  day!  We  had  slept  late 
(tired  from  our  long  afternoon  across  sand-hills  and 
alkali  flats)  and  the  sun  was  in  our  faces.  We  opened 
our  eyes  to  a  transfiguration!  No  longer  were  the 
vapors  gray  and  ghostly.  Changed  by  the  magic  of 
the  morning  sun,  rainbow-colored  wreaths  of  mist 


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floated  lightly  everywhere  about  us.  The  early  sky 
was  amethyst ;  the  hills  were  burnished  gold.  Up  and 
away !  The  day  was  glorious ;  and — today — the  world 
was  ours.  Breakfast;  break  camp;  mount;  and  on 
ward! 

Before  us  were  the  mountains.  The  road  went  up, 
and  higher.  It  is  good  to  climb  the  heights  when  the 
blood  is  young. 

"Sing,  riding's  a  joy!  For  me,  I  ride."  Away 
with  wheels!  Give  me  the  bridle-rein.  To  drive,  is 
to  be  a  slave — to  shackle  attention  to  the  team  and 
the  road;  for  the  road  may  be  filled  with  badger-holes 
and  boulders,  scarcely  passed  over  by  man  once  in 
five  years.  But  in  the  saddle!  Ah!  there  one's  horse 
is  given  his  head,  and  one's  thoughts  and  eyes  have 
freedom — free  to  roam  as  they  will;  to  go  a-seeking 
out  the  little  things  which  otherwise  would  surely  be 
missed. 

To  know  the  desert  well  (to  be  close  friends  with  it, 
and  then  finally  to  be  taken  into  its  confidence)  one 
must  of  necessity  either  travel  on  foot  or  ride  in  the 
saddle.  If  the  distance  one  would  journey  be  far,  then 
into  the  saddle!  But  to  drive —  Why,  one  misses 
most  of  the  pleasures,  and  all  of  the  little  discoveries. 

We  left  our  team — that  followed  the  road  which  ran 
along  by  the  foothills — while  up  and  down  deep  canons 
we  went,  and  where  there  was  never  a  sign  of  road,  or 
track,  or  trail.  Riding  in  sunlighted  shallows,  where 
high  walls,  close  at  hand,  still  lay  in  their  deep  morn 
ing-shadow.  Quail  ran  swiftly  up  the  slopes;  and 
sage-chickens — that  the  horses  flushed  where  they 
scrambled  through  the  slate-strewn  uplands — rose  with 
a  whirr  and  rush  of  strong  wings,  as  they  flew  in  great 
flocks  to  hillsides  beyond.  The  loaded  shotguns  lay  in 
our  laps,  and  we  shot  from  the  saddle;  and  riding 


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along  the  steep  slopes  we  picked  up  our  game  without 
dismounting. 

Less  than  a  mile  away,  three  deer  calmly  looked 
down  on  us  as  we  laboriously  climbed  upward;  but 
when  we  stopped,  taking  fright  they  went  like  a  wave 
over  the  hills  and  melted  into  the  distance.  Up  and 
down  another  ridge;  and  we  came  upon  a  Shoshone 
village  tucked  so  out  of  sight  that  it  was  startling  to 
discover  our  brown  brothers  living  there.  Far  from 
the  railroad  and  the  towns  that  so  soon  teach  them  the 
white  man's  ways,  they  were  almost  aboriginal  in  dress, 
and  seemed  a  different  clan  from  any  we  had  known. 
Theirs  was  the  dress  of  those  who  lived  in  the  land 
when  the  white  invader  first  found  his  way  there. 
Still  they  were  eating  dried  seeds  and  the  things  eaten 
by  their  forebears  before  them ;  still  they  lived  in  huts 
wattled  with  rabbit-brush  and  willows.  None  spoke 
any  English,  though  some  of  them  knew  what  we  said. 
So,  giving  to  one  of  their  number — an  old,  old  man 
crooked  of  limb,  and  weather-furrowed  of  face — 
cigarette  papers  and  a  sack  of  tobacco,  we  turned  our 
reins  again  across  the  horses'  necks,  and  were  off  once 
more  on  the  long  trail. 

We  found  an  abandoned  mining-claim — scarcely 
more  than  a  prospect — yet  there  had  been  enough  work 
done  to  show  us  that  some  one — some  time — had  hoped, 
and  worked,  and  failed,  and  lost  heart,  as  so  many  had 
before  him.  The  broken  rock  was  red-rusted  with  age 
and  the  storms ;  an  elderberry  tree  had  grown  up,  bar 
ring  the  doorway  of  the  cabin.  How  strong  he  must 
have  been  when  climbing  the  mountains  in  the  begin 
ning!  How  wearily  his  feet  must  have  dragged  when 
he  turned  and  went  down,  and  away !  And  then ;  was 
the  itch  for  the  pick-handle  in  his  palm  again — and  did 
he  go  to  other  mountains,  to  meet  other  failures?  It  is 
the  old,  old  story  of  the  old  prospector. 


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We  shot  at  a  coyote,  and — missed  him;  and  could 
not  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  be  sorry.  We  sat  by  a 
spring  a  full  hour,  watching  an  "ant-lion0  that  lay  in 
wait  for  unwary  ants,  which  trapping,  he  dragged 
mercilessly  down  to  his  dungeon.  We  found  a  place 
where  bees  had  hidden  their  stores;  and  became  their 
robbers.  Arrowheads,  we  found ;  fashioned  by  the  un 
tamed  Red  Man  in  the  days  when  he  made  war  on  his 
white  brother.  We  saw  a  mother-coyote  carry  a  jack- 
rabbit  home  to  her  young  ones;  and  we  left  her  at 
peace  in  her  den. 

No  mountain  sheep  had  we  seen,  though  finding  their 
tracks;  and  in  one  of  the  water-trails  made  by  wild 
creatures  we  saw  the  pad  of  a  mountain  lion. 

We  reined  in  our  horses  on  the  high  ridge  of  a  bald 
mountain,  where  the  wild  winds  buffetted  our  clothing, 
and  we  held  to  our  hats  with  both  hands ;  while  we  sat 
there  among  trees  that  grew  slantwise — trees  which 
from  long  bowing  their  heads  to  the  storms,  now  leaned 
to  the  ground  like  old  and  bowed  men. 

We  faced  the  four  winds;  they  seemed  all  blowing 
at  once.  We  looked  at  the  world  beneath  and  about 
us.  Our  eyes  sought  still  other  mountains  far  away, 
yet  hemming  us  in,  lying  fold  upon  fold;  gray  here, 
and  blue  in  the  distance,  the  highest  peaks  hooded  with 
the  first  snowfall  of  the  year. 

At  our  left — blue  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  shadows 
shading  to  lilac — lay  Table  Mountain.  Vertical  rocks 
rose  from  its  top,  walling  its  uttermost  rim — close- 
walled  with  granite  and  porphyry  rising  from  one  to 
three  hundred  feet  high,  and  through  which  but  three 
or  four  breaks  gave  entrance  to  the  level,  grass-cov 
ered  plateau  there.  To  that  haven,  hundreds  of  wild 
horses  came  daily  to  graze,  till  deep  snows  drove  them 
into  the  valley. 


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Tales  have  been  told  of  how  cowboys  riding  hard 
after  a  fast-running  herd  of  wild  horses,  have  caught 
an  instant's  glimpse  of  rare  little  black  foxes  that  live 
in  the  rocks. 

In  a  ravine  beyond  the  mountain,  is  the  wonder  of 
all  that  range,  Unnamed  by  any,  almost  unknown  by 
any  except  the  stockman  who  rides  the  ranges,  is  the 
Canon  of  the  Titans.  At  least,  that  is  the  name  we 
gave  it. 

Immense,  imposing,  the  symmetrical  rocks  rose  in 
huge  masses  from  the  point  of  a  sage-covered  hill  pro 
jecting,  like  a  promontory,  into  the  wide  canon.  Surely 
they  must  have  been  sawn  in  some  mill  of  the  gods,  for 
no  haphazard  chance  could  make  them  so  true.  From 
eighteen  inches  in  thickness  to  those  that  were  more 
than  two  feet  through,  the  dark,  reddish-brown  mono 
liths  seemed  to  have  been  squared,  and  sawed,  and 
planed  as  though  by  a  giant  master-workman.  Thirty 
feet  high  they  stood,  some  standing  higher;  some  not 
over  ten.  Side  by  side,  like  posts,  standing  on  end, 
they  covered  acres  innumerable. 

Here,  they  stood  in  perpendicular  masses,  like  tim 
bers  suddenly  turned  to  stone;  over  there,  hundreds 
were  lying  horizontally  as  though  piled  in  that  way  by 
giants  who  had  placed  them  there  for  building  their 
castles.  As  before  the  Giant's  Causeway,  and  the 
Devil's  Post  Pile,  and  others  of  Nature's  similar  fan 
ciful  vagaries,  one  stands  and  wonders,  overwhelmed 
and  silent.  We  climbed  to  the  divide  at  the  farther 
side  of  the  canon  and  gazed  down  on  them  from  that 
height.  We  went  up  the  canon  to  get  a  long  vista. 
We  drew  deep  breaths  of  wonderment,  and  regretfully 
turned  away. 

We  were  in  the  saddle  many  days,  going  whither  our 
fancy  willed.  It  was  late  October,  and  the  air  was 


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like  wine.  Long  distances  were  covered  without  either 
tiring  our  horses  or  ourselves.  The  spicy  smell  of  the 
junipers;  the  bitter-sweet  of  the  sage;  the  mingled 
odors  of  many  weeds  that  the  horses  trampled  under 
foot — all  these  come  to  me  now  and  here;  and  I  close 
my  eyes  and  am  back  again  on  the  wild-horse  trails 
over  the  Kennedy  mountain!  The  memory  of  it  all  is 
so  fresh  that  it  comes  close  to  me — is  here.  Again  I 
journey  through  the  desert-dried  seas;  once  more  I 
cross  plains  of  shifting  sand,  with  their  leprous  spots 
of  alkali.  I  remember  how  we  lost  our  trail  one  day 
— and  were  ourselves  lost,  and  spent  long  hours  stray 
ing  hither  and  thither  trying  to  find  an  old  road. 
Then,  when  night  suddenly  fell,  we  were  forced  to  halt 
at  that  pool  of  stygian  blackness— " The  Mud-Hole" 
—and  under  the  clouded  sky  make  our  camp.  No  sup 
per  had  we,  nor  could  we  drink  of  the  inky  waters  of 
that  mysterious  spring.  Under  the  sunlighted  sky  they 
might  have  seemed  less  eerie,  but  we  came  in  the  dusk 
and  left  before  the  sun  had  found  us  out.  On  the 
badger-bored,  dust-harried  clearing  about  the  pool,  we 
spread  out  our  blankets,  and  laid  down  to  sleep.  But 
no,  we  slept  not.  Whirlwinds  of  black  dust,  and  the 
troops  of  wild  horses  that  came  down  to  drink,  were 
not  of  those  things  that  encourage  sweet  slumber ;  and 
in  the  gray  dawn  we  harnessed,  saddled,  and  rode  out 
to  meet  the  brightening  day.  Even  the  mishap  that 
made  us  enforced  campers  at  the  "Mud-Hole"  had  not 
spoiled  the  day,  or  our  joy;  there  had  been  so  many 
more  things  that  were  delightful,  that  this  was  only  as  a 
passing  event  on  a  long  and  happy  journey. 

It  seems  but  a  day  since  I  rode  those  heights  with  a 
good  horse  under  me,  and  all  the  great  blue  arch  of  the 
desert-sky  overhead.  Yet,  it  is  all  the  world  away! 
Sighing,  I  look  down  at  my  wrists,  almost  fancying  I 


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will  see  shackles  which  have  been  snapped  thereon.  A 
prisoner!  For  call  ourselves  free  agents  as  we  may, 
yet  are  we  slaves  to  the  work-world,  and  always — 
always  necessity  somewhere  tugs. 

Sometimes  in  the  night,  when  I  lie  down  to  sleep 
here  among  the  roses  of  the  Southland  of  the  West,  I 
hear  the  querulous  barking  of  a  little  coyote  that 
comes  down  the  arroyo — perhaps  to  make  raids  on  the 
chickens  of  my  neighbors  across  the  way.  I  have  a 
very  friendly  feeling  for  the  little  fellow,  even  so  be 
he  does  come  with  malice  prepense;  for  the  sounds  of 
the  sharp  young  barks  are  reminders  of  those  I  have 
heard  under  the  desert  stars,  and  I  grow  homesick  for 
the  old  life  of  the  alkali  plains,  and  sorry  for  the  little 
gray  waif  that  has  the  courage  to  come  so  close  to  the 
fringe  of  the  big  city.  I  hope  that  no  one  will  kill 
him — that  he  will  not  get  caught  in  a  trap ;  poor,  little, 
vagrant  coyotito! 

One  cloudy  day's  end  we  halted  beside  a  stream 
flowing  out  of  a  canon,  which  was  part  of  a  ranch 
where  we  found  a  quartette  of  Mexicans.  The  old 
house  was  falling  to  pieces,  but  such  as  it  was,  they 
offered  us  the  shelter  it  afforded.  For  a  dust  storm 
was  blowing  up  the  mesa.  We  declined  their  proffered 
courtesy,  preferring  to  spread  our  blankets  on  the 
sweet,  fresh-cut  hay  stacked  in  the  barn.  But  gladly 
did  we  gather  with  them  when  they  brought  from  the 
little  lean-to  kitchen  (which  smelt  of  onions,  and  gar 
lic;  and  had  "jerky"  and  strings  of  red  chiles  hang 
ing  on  the  wall)  the  things  so  tempting  and  savory. 
The  carne,  and  corn  and  frijoles,  and  many  and  various 
other  dishes  of  Mexican  cookery.  Ripe,  red  tomatoes, 
lettuce  fresh  from  the  garden,  bread  white  and  sweet, 
and  just  out  of  the  oven ;  coffee,  hot,  strong,  and  with- 


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out  milk;  fresh  meat  taken  from  the  glowing  coals; 
fruit  that  was  but  now  picked  from  the  trees!  What 
would  you  better,  or  more? 

Then — when  supper  was  over,  and  the  table  cleared 
of  its  dishes — resting  on  a  couch  of  furs  arranged  for 
my  comfort  (for  what  Mexican  is  ever  unmindful  of 
the  courtesy  due  a  woman?)  I  listened  to  songs,  and  to 
stories.  Songs  which  have  never  been  written,  learned 
from  the  lips  of  another.  Songs  that  are  fast  disap 
pearing — crowded  out  by  the  new  education. 

Now — years  after — the  lilt  of  the  music  comes  back 
and  I  hear  again,  in  fancy,  the  voices  of  those  dark- 
skinned  men  singing  to  us,  away  off  there  in  the  dilap 
idated  old  ranch-house,  at  the  foot  of  the  gray,  grim 
mountains.  All  around  was  the  desert's  night-silence; 
and  within,  the  songs  and  the  stories.  Stories  of  wild 
days  back  in  rough  districts;  of  deeds  of  daring, 
coupled  with  bits  of  outlawry;  of  reckless,  dare-devil 
riding,  and  raiding.  Tales  told  in  broken  English, 
mixed  with  the  soft,  sibilant  language  of  Spain. 

The  evening  winds  came  up  from  the  sage-scented 
lowlands,  across  the  alfalfa-fields,  and  the  orchard,  and 
in  at  the  open  windows  of  the  smoke-blackened  room, 
blowing  the  flickering  candle-light  alternately  into 
brightness,  and  then  semi-oblivion.  The  candle,  thrust 
into  the  neck  of  an  empty  bottle  for  support,  stood  on 
the  bare  boards  of  the  rough  table  around  which,  or  in 
shadowy  corners,  were  scattered  the  men  whose  dark- 
skinned  faces  showed  dimly  in  the  glow  of  the  fickle 
flame.  The  wind-blown  candlelight  in  its  vagaries 
made  strange,  grotesque  expressions  to  come  and  go 
on  the  half-hidden  faces  of  Mateo,  and  black-bearded 
Manuel,  and  little  Vitoriano,  and  the  big  Basilic — 
Basilio  of  the  sweet  tenor  voice,  singing  to  us  the 
simpatica  songs  of  Spain.  The  smoke  from  the  cigar- 


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ettos  made  blue  streamers  float  toward  the  ceiling  in 
lazy  undulations.  Our  eyelids,  by  and  by,  grew 
heavy;  and  lulled  by  the  melody  of  the  singer,  we  lis 
tened  dreamily,  and  so  went  drifting — drifting — 

Then  some  one  sprang  up  to  say  that  the  hour  was 
late,  and  there  was  mucho  trabajo  to  be  done  on  the 
morrow;  so — with  a  hearty  "buenas  noches!"  all 
around — we  left  them  and  went  down  to  our  beds  in 
the  barn-loft,  on  the  fresh-stacked  alfalfa,  where  we 
dreamed  of  the  Alhambra,  and  the  dark  eyes  of  Spain, 
and  those  things  they  have  lent  to  the  New  World  since 
the  far  days  of  Cortez.  So  we  drifted  into  sleep  in 
our  clover-sweet  beds,  with  the  horses  in  the  stalls 
beneath  steadily  grinding  their  hay. 

We  rode ;  and  rode  the  days  away !  And  on  one  of 
those  last  days  we  came  to  an  open  canon  that,  once 
given  up  to  Chinese  placer  miners,  is  (other  Chinamen 
will  tell  you)  now  given  over  to  two  little  moon-eyed 
ghosts.  It  is  such  a  pretty,  pleasant  hollow  in  the  hills 
that  one  is  prone  to  doubt  the  truth  of  their  story ;  but 
they  will  tell  you  that  once  upon  a  time  gold-dust  was 
found  in  the  gravel  in  the  bottom  of  the  little  rosebush- 
edged  stream,  and  that  because  of  it  the  creek  banks 
were  soon  lined  with  Chinese  dug-outs  and  tents  made 
of  old  sacking.  The  gold  mining  prospered,  and  the 
little  men  planted  gardens  where  they  raised  the  veg 
etables  that  they  used;  and  one  of  their  number  molded 
bricks  of  mud — the  sun-baked  abodes — and  he  built 
him  a  good  house,  and  started  a  store.  In  it,  on  the 
shelves,  were  Oriental  supplies ;  and  under  the  counters 
were  stored  the  things  gotten  from  the  "white  devils"; 
and  a  portion  of  the  largest  room  was  set  apart  for 
Joss,  where  they  could  worship  before  his  image,  and 
so  propitiate  him.  The  smoke  from  the  tapers  as 
cended  and  mingled  with  the  odors  from  the  "yen-she" 


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pipes;  and  there  the  little  blue-bloused  men  sat  to 
gether  of  evenings,  and  gossiped,  and  gambled,  and 
were  happy. 

But  one  day  an  unseen  evil  Spirit  came  among  them, 
and  in  a  black  hour  stood  at  the  ear  of  one,  saying: 
"Do  murder!  Do  it!  Do  it  now!"  And  listening  to 
the  persuasive  voice  of  the  evil  one,  and  seeing  a  shin 
ing  and  sharp  knife  lying  on  his  palm,  he  yielded — for 
he  had  not  prayed  to  Joss  nor  burned  as  many  tapers  as 
formerly,  and  the  god  was  angry,  and  he  was  left  un 
protected — and  in  that  hour  a  foul  murder  was  done. 
So,  lessened  by  one  was  the  number  of  yellow-skinned 
miners  who  kept  on  digging  in  the  creek-bed  for  gold. 

There  followed  a  trial,  by  white  men;  and  then  the 
conviction;  and  then  a  hanging  in  the  jail-yard  off  at 
the  County-seat.  But  the  little  yellow-skinned  men 
dug  daily  in  the  creek,  seeking  gold;  and  their  num 
ber  was  lessened  by  two. 

But  those  who  were  left  working  day  after  day  in 
the  placers,  began  telling  strange  tales  soon — telling 
how  shovels,  and  buckets,  and  picks  which  they  laid 
down  when  quitting  work  with  the  sun,  were  taken  up 
by  mysterious  hands,  and  used  every  night. 

In  the  dark  some  one  stood  at  the  windlass — turning 
and  turning — hoisting  up  the  gravel  from  the  shaft; 
while  another,  down  in  the  bottom,  filled  the  buckets 
all  the  night  long.  In  the  dark,  every  night,  these  two 
came;  came  back  from  the  Nowhere.  Then  the  little 
miners,  affrighted,  fled  as  stampeded  sheep  scatter; 
and  so  the  place  became  deserted. 

Here,  one  night,  we  camped  near  the  store  where 
still  (it  is  said)  little  yellow  ghosts  sell  goods  over  the 
counters  all  covered  with  dust,  to  others  who  come  out 
of  ghostland;  and  by  the  shaft  where  the  creaking 
windlass  (they  say)  still  turns  and  turns  in  the  night 
time. 


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Just  at  twilight,  when  the  day's  violet  shadows  were 
turning  to  gray,  we  halted  our  horses,  and  there  in  the 
gravel-dump  at  the  shaft — when  I  washed  out  a  bit  of 
the  diggings — I  found  a  nugget.  A  very,  very  small 
one  it  is  true,  but  it  was  gold.  So  the  story  of  gold 
being  there  is  true.  That  being  true,  may  not  the  story 
of  the  little  blue-bloused  ghosts  be  true,  also?  I,  for 
one,  shall  not  dispute  it. 

It  was  Hallow-e'en  when  we  camped  there.  Perhaps 
that  fact  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  strength 
ening  my  belief. 

On  the  creek-bank,  among  the  wild  sweet-brier  and 
brook-mint,  we  spread  our  beds.  And  there,  that  last 
night  of  October,  by  our  campfire  of  blazing  juniper- 
boughs,  we  told  stories  of  past  Hallow-e'ens.  With  the 
warm  fire-glow  on  our  faces  we  sat  in  the  lonely  canon 
many  and  many  a  mile  from  other  creatures  of  our 
kind.  Deer  were  in  the  hills,  and  down  below  bands 
of  antelope  swept  along  the  plain.  Remembering  they 
were  there,  we  did  not  feel  lonely. 

We  had  dragged  huge  branches  of  the  green  juniper 
to  camp,  and  we  built  a  great  fire;  it  lighted  a  wide 
circle  where — at  the  edge — the  dug-outs  and  the  old 
adobe  stood  in  the  shadows.  Into  the  fire  we  threw 
great  boughs  of  the  resinous  greens,  and  each  would 
blaze  up  in  a  magnificent  illumination — a  veritable 
Christmas-tree  with  every  branch  and  twig  a-glitter 
with  tinsel  and  gilt.  And  each  of  us  hung  wish-gifts 
there  for  the  dear  ones  who  were  not  with  us — for  who 
ever  looks  into  the  heart  of  a  campfire  whose  own 
heart  does  not  go  out  to  some  unnamed  ausente? 

With  outward-turned  palms  shading  our  faces  from 
the  heat  of  the  roaring,  crackling  green  limbs,  while 
golden  sparks  went  flying  upward  toward  the  silver 
stars,  we  watched  the  green  boughs  burn  to  pink,  look 
ing  like  branches  of  pale  rose-coral  from  far  Hawaii. 


Old 

Campfire 

Days 


132 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


OM 

Complire 
Days 


And  we  grew  silent  with  the  dying  fire,  and  we  saw 
ghosts — ghosts  in  the  coals  where  wavering  shadows 
danced  and  flickered;  but  they  were  only  memory's 
spirit  forms,  and  those  that  were  well  beloved.  The 
two  little  Orientals  who  (it  is  told)  haunt  the  canon, 
came  not;  or,  if  they  did,  came  while  we  slept,  and — 
moving  ever  so  softly — made  no  sound  at  the  windlass, 
and  our  sleep  was  undisturbed. 

After  the  day  dawned,  yet  before  the  sun  broke  the 
morning  twilight  of  the  canon,  with  my  face  pressed 
close  to  the  pane,  I  peered  through  the  dusty  windows 
of  the  old  adobe.  My  curiosity  whetted,  I  was  not  sat 
isfied  in  seeing  no  more — I  must  pass  within.  So 
finally  I  effected  an  entrance.  Spiders  stretched  nets 
across  dusky  corners  for  unwary  flies,  and  mice  scur 
ried  away  into  the  rubbish  which  littered  the  place. 
On  the  counters — built  in  "Melican-man"  fashion,  and 
which  made  me  wonder  why — lay  dust  an  inch  deep; 
and  as  I  moved  (instinctively  stepping  as  lightly  as  I 
could,  lest  someone — something  be  disturbed)  the 
empty  house  echoed  loudly  my  tread.  Save  in  the 
larger  of  the  three  rooms,  nothing  remained  bearing 
witness  to  any  former  occupancy.  A  gallery  high  up 
at  one  end  of  the  store  held  a  small  temple  erected  to 
Joss — the  Joss  that  had  not  been  great  enough,  after 
all,  to  ward  off  evil  spirits ;  and  now  deserted  by  those 
who  had  placed  him  in  the  midst  of  a  shrine  greatly 
bedizened  and  betinselled,  and  decked  with  gaudy  rice- 
paper  flowers,  and  many-hued  tassels  of  silk.  About 
him  grinned,  and  grimaced,  and  stared  an  imposing 
array  of  small  gods ;  all  arranged  in  the  long  shelf -like 
gallery  from  which  depended  dozens  of  paper  strips, 
vividly  crimson,  and  inscribed  with  big,  black  Chinese 
characters.  These  fluttered  and  rustled  in  the  morning 
breeze  blowing  in  through  the  open  door — the  only 
movement  in  the  empty  house. 


The  Land  of  Purple  Shadows 


133 


Much  incense  had  been  burned,  if  one  was  to  judge 
by  the  many  half-consumed  tapers  still  there.  One 
god — hideous  and  gnome-like — seemed  to  have  been 
especially  chosen  for  the  supplicating  prayers.  Was  it 
the  "god  who  sends  money?"  Doubtless  the  weather- 
beaten  coolies,  washing  the  creek  for  gold,  prayed 
oftenest  to  the  gold-god.  It  is  to  be  feared,  however, 
that  the  supplications  miscarried,  and  the  little  yellow 
men  with  the  tip-tilted  eyes  lighted  the  punks  in  vain. 
Ah,  well !  we  whose  eyes  are  set  at  a  less  oblique  angle, 
sometimes  find  the  money -god  is  deaf  to  our  prayers, 
in  spite  of  the  punks  we  also  burn.  In  this  fact  may 
be  found  a  tie  of  kinship  between  the  little  men  of  the 
Orient  and  their  Occidental  brothers. 

I  came  out  of  the  shadows  that  lurked  in  the  old 
house  which  the  little  yellow  man  had  built  out  of  the 
sun-dried  bricks  he  molded  in  the  long-ago.  I  turned 
from  the  shadows  and  the  silence,  and  met  the  morning 
sun  coming  in  across  the  threshold.  The  years  had 
been  many  since  his  rays  had  trailed  across  the  bare 
floor;  it  was  not  for  me  to  bid  him  enter.  I  closed  the 
door  tightly  behind  me,  forcing  the  sunlight  back — 
back!  Again  the  house  was  left  to  the  ghosts  and  the 
gods,  and  the  squirrels  and  mice,  and  the  little  black 
crickets  in  the  walls,  that  shrilled  to  the  silence. 

Up  from  the  canon  depths  we  went.  Up  and  away 
to  the  heights  of  purer,  sweeter  air. 


Old 

Campfire 
Days 


And  here  ends  "The  Land  of  Purple 
Shadows,"  as  written  by  Idah  Meacham 
Strobridge,  with  illustrations  made  by 
Maynard  Dixon,  and  printed  on  the  R.  Y. 
McBride  Press,  and  Published  by  the 
Artemisia  Bindery,  which  is  in  Los  Angeles, 
California;  and  completed  on  the  First* 
day  of  December,  One  thousand,  nine 
hundred  and  nine. 


rXIYKRSITY    OF   CALIFORNIA    LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


29May5?8D 


WAY2819531U 

NOV 1 1  1979 

CIS,   DEC  2  7 


30m-6,'14 


i  U  Uoo 


I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


